


ouroboros: around and around we go

by theGirlNightwing



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Canon Era, Cheating, Explicit Sexual Content, Extended Metaphors, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jealousy, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Miscommunication, Slow Burn, They're kids at the beginning, and also the pairings of this fandom, anyways im going to hell, being gay is normal in this au, but still a big dif, excessive use of music terminology and religious metaphors, it's small for arranged marriages in general, like yknow if being gay was allowed back then, look so john and thomas are both rich southerners right, look this is painful, see y'all there, so what if their parents decided hey lets combine our family lines, their postal system sucks, this was a gift for someone so #edgy they say they dont like to read fluff so NO FLUFF FOR YOU LMAO, very very minor could be overlooked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:09:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9054754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theGirlNightwing/pseuds/theGirlNightwing
Summary: Thomas leans forward, places a hand on John’s cheek. “You okay with this?” he asks lowly. John casts a glance around the church - the expectant eyes of their family and close friends, all anxious to watch them complete the union, finish the ceremony. **The Laurens family and Jefferson family conspire to converge their family lines. History will never be the same.AKA they're both rich southerners and it f i t okay





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [draconequus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/draconequus/gifts).



> merry christmas motherfuckers  
> this is for draconequus for a secret santa  
> i wrote their rarepair  
> i wrote 29k of their rarepair  
> LOVE ME ROWAN 
> 
> (lighter than canon-typical racist language in this chapter)

Every ball is a masquerade. Invitees replace their emotions with masks and facades, presenting the best they have to offer. The hosts welcome all into their homes, covering grimaces and frowns with smiles and tinkling laughter, as if they aren’t already thinking of the disaster they’ll have to clean - or get cleaned - at 2am, when everyone departs the premises. This particular ball is no different. The couple hosting the event plays the golden couple, dancing when it’s expected, socializing just the right amount. The ballroom in their mansion is large - two times the size of the theatre down the street, with extravagant chandeliers dangling from the ceiling.

Marble columns provide support, and paintings are hung in every available space on the pastel blue walls. Purposely and pointedly showing off the wealth of the family, to be able to afford so many famous works and commissioned portraits. Large windows lining one wall allows light to stream through, spilling over the sparse furniture and tables overflowing with food. Disdainful people wearing stiff clothes spin and sway on the dance floor, plastered smiles and no light in their eyes. A little laughter spreads through the room, and the musicians in the corner switch songs. 

John doesn’t want to be here. 

He peeks out from under the table of refreshments. 

“Boo,” a voice whispers, and he squeals, shoves himself out from under and spots a laughing teen where he had just been. “You’re cute,” the boy says, and pokes John’s nose. John scrunches it up and shakes his head violently. 

The boy chuckles, and emerges from the table. “I’m Tommy,” he says. “What’s your name?” His eyes are deep brown, warm and genuine, and John can see smile lines around them. Different from the adults here - but then again John has a different perspective than everyone else, seeing as the most he can see is people’s legs. But his teeth flash abnormally white and sharp, and his hair falls in a cloud around his head - coils and curls alike springing with every step he takes. There’s something ethereal about him - something different. John doesn’t know what to make of him. 

John folds his arms and sticks his tongue out. “No talkin’ to strangers,” He says. 

Tommy bursts out laughing. 

“What?” John demands. 

“Your accent,” Tommy says. “Where are you from?”

“South Carolina,” John says, and kicks Tommy’s shin, turns, and runs as fast as he can in the other direction. 

“Ow!” He hears behind him, but ignores it, instead electing to search frantically throughout the ballroom for his parents. All he sees are unfamiliar adults in unfamiliar clothes, dressed so nicely while he’s wandering around in a dirty casual shirt and scuffed pants. He gets a few dirty looks, holds up his nose and neglects to inform them that he is the  _ son _ of the  _ host _ of this  _ ball _ , thank you very much. 

When he finds his mother, she’s talking to another adult - a looming tall man dressed in a nice suit, dark blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. “Mama,” He says, and tugs on her dress.

“What is it, sweetheart?” She picks him up in a swoop. “Are you alright?”

“Scary boy,” John mumbles, and buries his face in her neck. 

“Oh darling, you don’t have to be scared of anyone here.”

The man they’re talking to chuckles. “My Thomas was just like that when he was a kid, wouldn’t leave his mother’s side at events like these.”

“How old is your boy, Mr. Jefferson?”

“About sixteen, I’d hazard. I’ll call him over, if you’d like to speak with him?”

“Sixteen and five. That’s not a bad difference, is it?”

“Mama?” John asks uncertainly. 

“Sh, quiet, honey.”

“No, not at all.”

“Father,” someone says, displeased, and John clutches tighter to his mother as the scary boy from earlier comes into view. “You’re not trying to sell me to another family again, are you?”

“Of course not, Thomas.” The man claps his hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “This is my son, Thomas. Thomas, this is Mrs. Laurens.”

“ _ Mademoiselle _ ,” Thomas says smoothly, takes her hand and bows, pressing a kiss to the top. 

“Charming,” she says, smiling brilliantly. John sticks his tongue out at Thomas when she’s not looking. 

Thomas raises an eyebrow in response.

“Anyway, it was a pleasure to speak with you, Mrs. Laurens. I’d be delighted to continue correspondence via post.”

“Of course, sir,” she replies, and curtsies. A slight inclination of his head is all the respect Mr. Jefferson displays before he sweeps off, son trailing behind him.

“I don’t like them,” John whispers. 

“You’ll be seeing a lot of them for the rest of your life, sweetheart,” his mother murmurs. She turns and scans the room for his father. “You’d best get used to them.”

* * *

The Jeffersons’ ballroom is curiously different from the Laurens family’s. In South Carolina, the style is more Colonial. In Virginia, the French influence stands out everywhere John turns. There are chandeliers, but that’s about where the resemblance ends. Gold lines the walls, and the floors are made of wood. The ceilings are high, and extravagant, painted and lined with carvings. The fleur de lis is prominent everywhere, a very French symbol. Arches curve around glass doors that lead to sprawling lawns of green and the nicer looking part of the cotton fields. John looks over there curiously, cataloguing the differences between the cotton plants here and the sugarcane back home. 

A slave moves towards those rows from deeper within the field before another pulls him back frantically, motioning towards the main building. John mistakes it for waving, and waves back. The slaves stare at him before running back, together, as fast as possible. John frowns. They didn’t look any older than Thomas did, why were they so scared? His father pulls him away from the glass quickly, after that, whispering about “damn Negroes going where they’re not allowed to go.” John doesn’t struggle, but keeps his eyes locked on the field until he’s too far to see through the window anymore. His father tells him not to look out at the field again. John heaves a sigh internally but agrees out loud - it’s silly, no reason to truly piss off Henry Laurens. Plenty of other opportunities for that. His father pats him on the head and leaves. 

He’s alone for not even a second before his hair is snatched.

“Ow!” John cries, but Thomas ignores him, continues tugging him out of the main room by his ponytail. “Let go!” 

“No,” Thomas says shortly. 

“Bully! Kidnapper! Let me go!”

The adults around them give him no more than a bemused look of condescension. Useless adults. Thomas seems determined to drag him away, though John can’t imagine what for. He didn’t seem that fond of him, last time they’d met. Though their parents had been talking, so maybe… John scowls. He doesn’t need a babysitter. Though Mama wouldn’t do that to him, right? He’s still being dragged, and Thomas has made pretty good headway. They’re halfway to the exit. Maybe they’ll pass John’s Mama? Probably not. They’re making enough of a scene that she’d probably have seen him already. He eyes the dessert table as they pass, and contemplates grabbing the tablecloth, letting Thomas yank him past, just to see all the towering fancy creme French things fall crashing to the ground in a great  _ smash. _ But Father’s here, so. Perhaps that would be unwise. Out of options, then. He decides that fighting is useless, and goes limp. 

“Little cockroach,” Thomas hisses, and grabs his shoulders instead, likely to spare him pain. John scowls and crosses his arms as Thomas hauls him outside by the armpits. What does Thomas care if he’s in pain?

“What do you  _ want?” _ John demands. “You have more money than me.” The ballroom is evidence enough for that, much less the property. Mama told him they were at the property almost half an hour before they actually arrived at the house. If one could even call this… thing a house. Estate, possibly. 

“You don’t  _ have _ any money, idiot, you’re  _ six _ .”

“Do too!”

“Your parents’ money.”

“You don’t have any money either,” John says petulantly. 

“Uh huh,” Thomas says, and puffs up his chest proudly. He looks like a peacock, John decides. “I earned five pounds when I brought Momma her spinning wheel from across the house.”

“Five pounds,” John repeats snidely. “ _ Five. _ ”

“Shut up,” Thomas snaps. “That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point, then?”

“The point is that I doubt you want to be in that room with all the stuffy adults, and since Jemmy is sick again, it’s just me and you.”

“I don’t wanna spend any time with you,” John says.

“You don’t even know me.”

“You’re tall.”

“And that means you don’t like me?”

“Yes.”

“Do I scaaaare you?” Thomas sticks his tongue out and makes a face. 

“Not like that you don’t,” John says flatly.

Thomas laughs. “Come on, kid. Wanna see my horses?”

“I have horses at home,” John says.

“What about this chair I made?” Thomas tries. “It’s the only one like it in the world.”

“Just a chair.”

“It’s not just a chair! You can spin it around as much as you’d like without the base moving.”

“So?”

“Just try sitting in it, okay? Trust me.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“I’ll give you chocolate mousse?”

“What’s that?”

Thomas lights up, obviously excited. John wonders why Virginia likes France so much. “It’s French - a French dessert brought here to Virginia, it’s the only place in the colonies that has it! It’s chocolate but it’s light and fluffy and it tastes like eating a chocolate cloud.”

“Okay,” John agrees. “Chocolate is good.”

He follows Thomas to a room away from the ball, where he can barely hear the adults’ chatter. 

“This is the kitchen,” Thomas says, and brushes by servants - slaves - as he reaches for a small cup. It’s filled with something chocolate-y brown that smells heavenly, but when John grabs for it Thomas holds it away, smiling. “You don’t get this until we get outside.”

“Why are we going outside?”

“Yes. Follow me.”

They head to the fields, and Thomas hands him the cup as they go further down the hill. “Your house is nice,” John says. 

“I guess,” Thomas replies, but he’s got a pinched look on his face that John can’t read. And John is  _ good _ at reading people, young as he is. So there’s something lurking. John sees a face in the cotton fields, and stares, curiously. It’s the boy from before, skin as dark as Father’s favorite dress clothes. His eyes pop because of that, complete contrast. John takes a step forward. The boy takes a step back. Eyes flicker to where Thomas stands, impassively, next to John. Fear flickers there, briefly. He turns, and runs. 

“They’re always scared,” John says. He doesn’t want to generalize with the “they” but it’s better than the word Father uses. The word that makes him feel inexplicably sick. “Why?”

“What our fathers do to them,” Thomas says quietly. “And our grandfathers before them.”

“What do they do?”

“It’s not good for anyone your age to hear,” Thomas says. “I’ll tell you next time we meet.”

“What if we don’t meet?”

Thomas laughs harshly. “Our parents run the same social circles. We’ll spend a lot of time together in the next few years, John Laurens.”

“Hm.” John takes a bite of the chocolate, and just about melts in pleasure. “Ooh,” he says. “This is good.”

“Good is an understatement,” Thomas says. 

“Okay, yeah,” John says. 

“Have you met anyone else?” Thomas asks. “Younger, I mean. At the balls. Galas.”

“No,” John says. “You were the first. They left me at home before. That was my second.”

“I’ll need to introduce you to a few others,” Thomas says, but John shakes his head quickly. 

“No, it’s fine. I don’t really like people.”

“You’re six,” Thomas says. “When you’re older you’ll like people just fine.”

“You don’t  _ know _ that,” John says. “Maybe I’ll grow up to hate people even more.”

“Maybe. But you’ll want some allies on your side.”

“Why would I want that?”

“So when you’re against someone you aren’t alone,” Thomas says. “Because you, Laurens. You’re a fighter. You’re gonna fight a lot of people, and you’ll need your closest friends to stay by your side to win those battles.” 

“You don’t know me,” John says. But he knows, even then, that Thomas is right. And, anyway, he doesn’t like being alone. 

Thomas sits down on the grass, and John follows suit, neither caring about the state of their clothes. “It’s pretty,” Thomas says, and gestures to the fields. He’s right. In the setting sun, the light has illuminated the open space and everything looks bright in reds and orange and yellow and the fields appear to be set on fire. The sky is going pink, and clouds are scarce, scattered across the wide expanse. No trees block the view, but the cotton plants are tall so they can’t see the very end of the sky. There’s one other grass-only hill, on the other end of the plantation. There’s a platform a little ways forward, and a post sticking up, and a horizontal stick of wood perched on that. A rope hangs from the wood. “Kind of destructive. But pretty.” 

“Yeah,” John says. 

There’s a distant sound, a loud  _ crack _ that’s muffled by the air between them and the source of the noise. Thomas and everyone in the field collectively flinch. 

John wonders what the noise was. 

“I can’t tell you,” Thomas says, before John asks. “We should go back inside.”

“Okay.” 

They stand together, and reenter the house. John has finished his chocolate, so Thomas takes the cup and discards it quickly on the tray of a passing slave. “We can hide in a different room,” he says to John. 

“Please,” John says. The adults in the room don’t like him. Or they like him too much. He doesn’t know if he could take any more cooing and cheek pinching, or the view of everyone’s legs. He can’t see their faces, and everyone’s legs are the same. He doesn’t know if he would last very long before getting lost.

He follows Thomas to another room, with sofas and a cold, empty fireplace. 

John still isn’t quite comfortable with Thomas at the end of the night, but he’s closer. And he isn’t scared of him anymore, not quite. 

“Next time you’re dragged to one of these, look for me.”

“Okay,” John grumbles. “Only if you have chocolate.”

Thomas ruffles John’s hair. John yelps and bats his hand away, and Thomas snorts, “Brat.”

* * *

John meets the “Jemmy” Thomas had mentioned when he’s seven. James Madison is ten. 

“It’s been awhile since Jemmy’s been to a gala,” Thomas says. “He’s sick a lot.”

James glowers at both of them and blows his nose. John stares at him. 

The silence gets heavy fast, and Thomas quickly says, “Uh, so this is John Laurens. John, this is Jemmy. James Madison.”

“Hi,” James says monotonously. 

“Hi,” John echoes. “Why are you sick so often?”

“My immune system is terrible.”

“What’s an im - immon - immune system?” 

“It fights the bad stuff that gets into your body,” Thomas says.

“Oh,” John says. He continues staring at James.

James is  _ tiny _ . He’s smaller than John - a feat in and of itself - and he’s  _ older _ than John is. By  _ three _ years. He’s wearing all black, and he keeps pulling little squares of kerchiefs out of nowhere to blow his nose. John doesn’t see where he’s discarding them either, but they’re not in his hands, his pockets look empty, and there are none conspicuously scattered along the floor. They just somehow disappear. James’ hair is slicked back, and it looks a little weird in John’s opinion. It just makes him look greasy. His face is sallow, and his expression flickers between blank and I-could-kill-you-twenty-different-ways-with-a-spoon. 

“I’ll be back,” Thomas says hastily. “Momma’s calling me. Please don’t kill each other.” And he’s gone.

“I don’t like you,” John says bluntly. 

James eyes him, and shrugs. “I don’ care,” He mumbles, and blows his nose again. 

John blinks, and tilts his head. “Why not?”

“Don’ know you,” James says. He seems really engrossed in his little square. Maybe being sick so often makes you hallucinate images in the things you blow your snot on. 

“But Thomas does.”

“So?”

“So I’m his friend too.”

“And?” 

“And  _ so _ , you should  _ care _ what I think of you!” John stomps his foot in frustration, but James just blinks at him. 

“...Why?”

“Do you not care what your friends’ friends think of you?”

“No?”

“Why not?”

“Cos they’re not my friends, doesn’ matter to me.” James shrugs. “Thomas likes me. Don’ care if you do or don’.”

John opens his mouth indignantly, ready to argue, but Thomas reappears, declaring, “What’d I miss?”

“You were barely gone,” James says, displeased. 

Thomas laughs. “With that attitude, one would think you  _ wanted _ me gone.”

“I do, you nasty.”

“Don’t call Thomas nasty,” John says immediately. 

“It’s fine,” Thomas tells him. “It’s just a joke, John. Harmless.”

“Jokes can be hurtful,” John says indignantly. 

“Not this one, though.”

“...Okay.”

Despite Thomas’ best efforts, John and James just don’t seem to click. James is mostly neutral about everything John related, but John has an adamant hatred for him, for some indiscernible reason. 

“Sorry about him,” Thomas says quietly to James after the Laurens family has departed. 

“It’s fine,” James says. “He didn’t really bother me. ‘Sides, he was kind of adorable.”

* * *

John and Thomas meet a few times more after that, enough to develop a fondness for each other. John even sent Thomas a letter once, but got nothing in reply, so didn’t try again. They were close - friends who could confide in each other - but only when convenient for both. Not one or the other - just both. Thomas would likely not help John if it didn’t benefit him, and John, likewise, would not help Thomas if he had nothing to gain. Friends they may have been, it would be no skin off his back if Thomas disappeared suddenly, he thinks. Besides not having company during boring galas and balls and the like, he probably wouldn’t even notice Thomas’ absence. 

Of course, John’s nine when they see each other for what Thomas says will be the last time in a few years. 

“Father’s dying,” Thomas says. “And besides. I’m an adult now, really an adult. I’d have to stay in the big kids’ room at balls, anyway.” He hadn’t been. Against his parents’ wishes, he’d continued to locate John quickly - his sixth sense, he jokes sometimes. A John-finding sense - and tug his hair, then pull him - or get pulled, as the case may be - from the stuffy room full of stuffy aristocrats.  

“You’re only twenty,” John says into Thomas’ chest. He’s hugging him tightly, unwilling to let go. Maybe he was wrong, then. About what it’d be like if Thomas disappeared. His chest is doing something funny, and his stomach feels weird. He kind of likes Thomas’ company, he supposes. It’ll be weird without him around. Maybe even lonely. They never really talked outside the events, but still. John has a feeling that something will change. “You old fart.” 

“Shut up,” Thomas says, laughing. There’s something in his eyes, maybe a little sadness or remorse. Maybe Thomas will miss him too. “You’re still tiny, brat.”

* * *

One night, the night of a Christmas gala - the first time John’s seen Thomas in a year - John’s parents ask the Jeffersons if they can stay with them. 

No room sharing was necessary, so John has his own room. The bed is big, but Thomas shakes his head when John looks. “Have you ever,” he says, and grabs a cushion off a sofa, throws it to the floor. “Made a pillow fort?”

“A what?” 

“Come here,” Thomas says, 

John follows obediently, takes the pile of pillows Thomas shoves into his arms. “What do I do with -?” He stumbles, and Thomas steadies him. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Thomas directs him gently on where to put the things. Four to the sides, chairs rearranged, many many cushions on the floor. Blankets draped over the chairs and cushions and covering the ground. 

“Isn’t this a kid thing?” John asks, when Thomas is lying on his stomach, top half hidden inside the fort. He’s doing something, John can’t tell. “Isn’t that a fire hazard?” He asks, when Thomas doesn’t answer. There’s a light shining through the sheet that’s acting as a roof. Thomas has fire inside an enclosement made of flammable objects. John wonders if Thomas is sane, and if he should be worried. 

“It’s an everyone thing,” Thomas says finally, muffled. “Most adults are just too stuffy to think of doing such a thing.”

“Maybe there’s a reason to that.”

“I’m an adult, John. Trust me when I say there isn’t.” Thomas emerges from the fort rumpled, but smirking. “Done. And as long as I hold the candle, don’t worry about fire.”

When John enters, he doesn’t see much special about the fort besides that everything around him is made of cushion. 

Thomas crawls in after him, grins proudly. 

“So what?” John asks, genuinely confused. 

Thomas huffs. “It’s a fort. To hide from adults.”

“You’re an adult.”

“That’s besides the point.”

“So what is the point?”

Thomas sighs. “The point,” he says, and hands John a wrapped parcel. “Merry Christmas, Laurens, you little brat.”

John’s eyes widen. “Is this a -”

“Present. Don’t think about it too much, alright? Father and I went to the market nearest to us and I saw that. Reminded me of you.”

John peels the paper off carefully, conscious of the delicate way the present is wrapped. He discards it in one piece. The actual gift - once John opens the box - is a small metal circle on a chain. The circle, upon closer inspection, is shaped as two snakes, both biting their own tails. The two tails create a kind of symbol. The snake heads are flat and it feels like it wouldn’t be uncomfortable to just wear as a [ring](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/24/7d/01/247d013f029ce112b1138fecc4e5f536.jpg). John gasps, traces the lines of the design. “It’s beautiful,” He says quietly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Thomas says. 

“I don’t have anything to give you in return…”

“It’s fine,” Thomas says. “Really, I wasn’t expecting anything.”

John considers, before pushing himself up off the cushion, and landing a close-mouthed kiss on Thomas’ cheek. He sits back, satisfied. “There.”

“Thank you,” Thomas says, amused. 

John pouts. “You’re not taking it seriously,” He says. 

“No, I am!” Thomas insists. “You’re just too adorable.”

“I’m not  _ adorable _ ,” John says. “I’m not a  _ child _ .”

“Yes you are.”

“You’re a meanie,” John says. 

“You’re a little brat prince,” Thomas says. He pauses. “I have the perfect - hold on.” He climbs back out, and John takes the time to admire the little trinket a little more. 

When Thomas returns, John is sprawled across what he’s dubbed “his side” of the fort. Thomas is holding something in his hands, a spiky paper thing. “Here,” Thomas says, and fits it around his head. “A paper crown for a brat prince.” 

“If I’m a prince, why aren’t you bowing?” John says, only half joking.

Thomas bends at the waist, even though he’s sitting, and his hair scrapes against the blankets on the floor. “My liege,” he says grandly, exaggeratedly. John watches, fascinated. Thomas straightens again, and he’s wearing a smile that dances across his lips. 

John smiles back, giggles. “I didn’t  _ mean _ that,” he says. 

“I know,” Thomas says. 

The crown doesn’t leave John’s head that night.

* * *

John hasn’t seen Thomas in two years. 

He’d been closer to Thomas than to anyone else. Sounds pathetic, he knows. But being home-schooled with his tattle-tale cousins, he didn’t really have anyone else.

The absence hurts. 

Then his mother comes into his room - at midnight on his birthday, he’s twelve,  _ finally _ \- and says, “You’re arranged to get married in six years.”

His heart plummets. He thought - he’d thought they’d let him choose -

“To whom?”

_ Not Martha, _ he thinks. He knows they want him to, they’ve been pushing for it, not understanding that it’s not just her that he’s not interested in, but the fact that she doesn’t have - she’s not - 

“Thomas Jefferson.”

Okay. He didn’t want Thomas back in his life  _ this  _ much _. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the-girlnightwing.tumblr.com hmu w prompts n shit ;;;))) (new blog)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> awkward children are awkward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> m a k i n g b a b i e s  
> john you innocent bby ily
> 
> john is underage for the beginning of this and thomas is older, but the only thing that happens is john checks out thomas' crotch 
> 
> ALSO MARRIAGE YAY

John bows deeply, and gets the same in response. “Thomas,” he says, and extends his arm. 

“John,” Thomas says, and takes it. 

They both  _ clearly _ want to talk about it, but neither wants to be the one to bring it up. 

John is thirteen, Thomas is twenty-four. As friends, they were fine - people can be friends with those younger or older than them. In fact the age gap is small, in terms of marriage. However most arranged marriage couples don’t ever meet until both parties are of age - while Thomas and John had met when John was  _ five _ . 

“What have you been doing, over the past three years?” John asks, and swings his legs under his chair.

Thomas shrugs, chin on his palm, elbow resting on a table, pointedly not meeting John’s eyes. “Stuff. Dad’s trying to get me into politics.”

“Are you gonna try it?”

“I think so. But with the rumors of a rebellion, a revolution against Britain, I don’t know… it seems to risky.”

“Well, do you  _ like _ politics?” John asks.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Then go into politics.”

Thomas laughs bitterly. “You don’t know enough about the world, John. If I go into politics at the start of a revolution, there are thousands of risks.”

“So? Risk your career.”

“No, I’d be risking my  _ life _ .”

John hesitates, but by the time he’s gathered his thoughts to respond, the silence has lapsed for too long for it not to be awkward to comment. 

“And what have  _ you  _ been doing? Got older, I see.”

“Yeah, fight me.”

“You’re still small, shortstack.”

“ _ Fight me.” _

“Nah, I’m good.”

John huffs in annoyance. “I guess I won’t tell you what I’ve been doing then.” He hasn’t been doing much. He pretty much spends his time moping around his room, or taking classes with his parents’ hired private tutor. Father wants to send him to Oxford to get a law degree. John doesn’t want to study law.

“Fine.”

They sit in silence once more. 

“I guess we’ll be spending a while together, won’t we,” John says quietly.

“Are you upset you have to spend time with me?” Thomas asks, offended.

“No!” John says quickly. “I’m fine with that. It’s good. Fine. But I don’t want - it’s just - you’re so much  _ older  _ than me. And you didn’t even like me at first.”

“You didn’t like me,” Thomas says. “And the age gap we have is tiny compared to others’. My parents’. Yours’.”

“It’s just weird,” John insists.

Thomas nods. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

“Did you -” He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to imply that Thomas would take advantage like this. They’re  _ friends _ , for fuck’s sake.

“No. Father did. Did you have a say?”

“I’m thirteen, Thomas,” John says. “I wasn’t thinking about marriage until Mama told me I’d be marrying a man eleven years older than me the moment I turn of age.”

Thomas flinches, looks up and away from John. “Yeah.” He looks like he wants to say something, but closes his mouth instead and rubs his eyes.

“What?” John asks.

“Nothing. A talk we should have when you’re older. Three years later, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Is it about -” John lowers his voice. “Making babies?”

Thomas stares at him in disbelief before bursting into laughter. John scowls, crossing his arms. Thomas’ laugh is deep, rumbling through his body and sending quaking vibrations over his shoulders. “Making babies,” Thomas repeats, mirthful. “ _ Right.  _ Yeah, we’re not having this conversation until you’re much, much older.”

“But I wanna know now,” John whines, and Thomas just laughs harder.

“Making babies,” he repeats quietly, still snickering as he stands. “I’ll see you around, John. Father’s glaring at me, I should go over.” He stumbles away, still snickering, and mumbles something about getting a whisk. Getting something whisky? Something like that. 

John scowls. “You suck,” he grumbles.

* * *

They meet only sparsely throughout the next few years, John being busy with studies and Thomas occupied with politics. 

In the few times they do, both of them try too hard to be civil, instead making it more awkward than if they had been awkward in the first place. 

John wonders if this is what all those years of marriage are going to be like. Awkward and full of stilted conversation. 

He hopes not. 

He and Thomas had been good friends, before this. He wishes that could still be true.

* * *

“You’re getting married to an older guy, right?” Martha says, head in his lap. He’s combing his fingers idly through her hair. He and Martha had grown closer once his marriage arrangement had been announced - to both of their relief, they weren’t destined to wed. Though Martha’s parents had given a good effort, no one could have competed with the Jeffersons. Rich Virginians - a good name, a good bloodline. More than enough land, and more than enough money. And to top it off, Thomas isn’t exactly  _ ugly _ . Even John can admit that the man is attractive. “Do you think he’ll be experienced?” 

“In?”

“Oh boy.” Martha sits up. “Has no one given you the sex talk?”

“Um,” John squeaks. “No?”

“Oh boy. Come here sweetie, you and I are gonna have a long talk.”

“About?”

“Having sex with your husband,” Martha says. “Because that man is  _ fine.  _ You’re not messing this up, I  _ refuse _ to let you.”

“Martha, he’s -”

“25? Yes. I know. So he probably has experience, which means he’s going to be  _ good _ .”

“Martha -”

“John, just listen -”

“Martha, please.” 

She stops talking. 

“I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

She huffs, and flops back down onto the couch. “Alright, fine.”

“I’m sorry, I just -”

“No, I get it! I’m sorry for trying to force you to talk about it.”

“It’s fine,” John says, and lies down on her legs. 

She yelps, and tries to kick him off. “Get off me, John Laurens, or I swear to high heaven I’ll -”

“Curse at me?” He suggests mockingly, hugging onto her legs and not letting go. He pitches his voice higher and says, “I’ll tell my father!”

“Shut  _ up _ ,” she whines, and shoves at him again, succeeding this time. He falls to the floor with a thump.  

“That was rude of you,” John says grumpily, and jumps back up. This time he avoids her legs. 

“It was rude of you to be there in the first place,” she says. 

He has no argument, so he stays silent. 

“Anyway. Tell me about your boy, John.”

“Less boy,” John reminds her. “Eleven years my senior, Martha.”

“Yeah, yeah. Tell me everything.”

Martha ends up telling him he and his fiancé need to have the most wild, amazing sex ever. He wants to roll his eyes at the suggestion, but refrains. Later he mimes puking his guts out, and hides under his blankets, trying not to think about pillow forts and paper crowns. 

* * *

John’s sixteen, next he and Thomas meet. He clenches his jaw, eyes flickering down to sharply and thoroughly examine Thomas’ groin without him noticing. Yes, he knows what sex is now. Someone finally took pity on him and explained everything. 

Yeah. No wonder Thomas was laughing. 

“You look… worried,” Thomas says. 

“Eh,” John says. 

Their parents have essentially locked them in an empty room together, to make them “get over their nervousness”. John wonders if two-way conversation with the mirror would be easier than trying to talk to Thomas without going bright red. 

“If you’re uncomfortable -”

“No, that’s not it. It’s not you, sorry. I’m just. Disconcerted, you know?”

“Yeah,” Thomas says. 

“I was expecting to. Well, you know the rebellion’s rising, right? So there’s gonna be a war soon. I was expecting to stay unmarried and go into the war without any outside ties. I was - I want to be a martyr.”

Thomas has begun to look alarmed. “John -”

“No, wait. Just. I don’t want to be a stay-at-home spouse. Don’t expect that from me.”

“I wasn’t,” Thomas promises. 

“Our parents are, though.”

“Yeah.”

John sighs. “I don’t know. I still want to fight. You can’t stop me from joining the war, when it surfaces.”

“Which side will you be fighting?” Thomas asks. 

John eyes him warily. “I side with my country,” he says. “Since when has King George done anything for us?” 

“Good question,” Thomas says. 

Neither of them speak for a while. 

It’s interesting, how smooth that conversation went, where neither of them was really trying hard.  _ Maybe that’s the key to the thing,  _ John thinks. 

When their parents come back for them, they’re sitting on opposite sides of the room. Thomas is staring off into space. John is asleep. 

The silence feels like a camaraderie. Thomas gives John a grimace as they leave. John smiles back.

Maybe this’ll work.

* * *

“They need to stop interfering,” John says. 

Thomas is in the middle of bashing his head against the wall. “It’s less interfering, more trying to force us to like each other, y’know?”

“I think they’re just waiting for us to have wild sex,” John says speculatively. He isn’t even kidding. Every time their parents come back, even if the two of them are talking, they get disappointed looks. 

“That’s a valid point,” Thomas says thoughtfully. “But since when have you known what sex is?”

John splutters. “Shut  _ up _ ,” he says. 

“Hey, last time it was brought up in conversation, you called it  _ making babies _ .”

“I’m going to kill you,” John says. “Slowly. Slowly and painfully.”

“I wish you luck,” Thomas says.

* * *

The ceremony is quiet. 

Only their closest family members are invited, with the addition of Martha and her parents, and James Madison and his parents. Neither John nor Thomas have a best man.

The church is small, but beautiful. It’s in the middle of nowhere, but surrounded by sprawling fields. It’s sunset and the sky has turned beautiful pinks and oranges, sunlight filtering along the open air to illuminate the white wood of the church. The building itself is but a speck on the green fields, only a small dirt road leading to it. Vines grow up the side, creating a cottage-like appearance, but stained glass windows depicting a cross and various scenes from the Bible indicate its status as a church. 

The inside has six rows of pews, and a small raised platform with a simple wooden pulpit at the front. Behind the pulpit hangs a cross with a metal depiction of Christ. The walls display biblical tapestries, under metal holsters for torches. Large windows let in the yellowing light, lighting up the dust floating in the air and giving the room an ethereal feeling.

Thomas walks in the day of the marriage, takes one glance around, and immediately declares, “It’s perfect.”

John wrinkles his nose and does a 360 degree turn. “Really?” 

“Most definitely. Only the best for my  _ sweetheart _ .” Thomas says sarcastically, swiping John’s hand and mock bowing, exaggeratedly leaving a kiss. 

John snatches his hand back, frowning, and ignores the flip-flopping feeling in his stomach. “Can we just get this over with?”

“I’m hurt,” Thomas says, and saunters to the front, inspecting the pulpit. “You don’t want to maximize your exposure to me?”

“Exposure to you ends in corruption.”

“You’re so beautiful I thought you were incorruptible.”

John flushes. “With that kind of talk one would think you wanted this marriage to happen.”

Thomas shrugs, turns on his heels and spreads his arms like he’s about to conduct the most intense orchestral entrance ever, or he’s waiting for something to hit him. Head tilting back, eyes slipping closed as the sun beams slide over him. Swaying a little as John watches, quiet. Unwilling to break whatever this is. 

He looks good. 

Infinitely better than he did the earliest instance John remembers meeting him. Something happened between then and now - he’s almost glowing, with the healthiness of his skin, the way his lips curl slightly into a small grin. He looks free. At peace with himself. Another beat of silence, and a pew creaks. Thomas breathes, and when he lets it out, he begins to sing. 

John feels a chill run down his spine. He learned Latin when he was younger, but even if he couldn’t understand, he’d know  _ Ave Maria  _ anywhere. This particular version is slow, an arrangement by a lesser known composer by the name of Franz Schubert. Thomas holds the first note long, letting it ring through the open space. The acoustics of the space allow for a richer sound, but John is sure even in the deadest of rooms Thomas’ voice would stand out and resonate. The emotion behind the notes and words is stunning - reverent but at the same time a little bit of desperation that tugs at John’s heart. Towards the end of “Maria” John feels the full force of the music wash over him and resonate in his core. Thomas looks elegant up there, heavenly almost, like an angel. 

“Thomas,” someone calls sharply from behind John. 

Thomas cuts short the song and lowers his arms. Blinks open his eyes slowly and smiles apologetically at his mother. “Momma.”

“Get down from there, Thomas. Don’t be silly.”

“Of course.” Thomas steps down, breezes past John. But as he does, he murmurs, “ _ Observandum, delicius. _ ”

_ Watch closely, darling. _

He exits the church, and the door shuts. John’s left alone with the metal statue of Jesus on the cross. He sighs, and walks forward carefully, setting each foot exactly in front of the other. He imagines everyone he knows, everyone important to Thomas all gathered in the pews, eyes on him. James would look away, probably. Wouldn’t deem him worthy to look at for more than a second. Thomas standing at the front, smiling at him, or frowning. The officiant would remain expressionless and say all the words he needs to say, likely for the fifth time today. John would say I do. Thomas would look him in the eyes and open his mouth and say -

He stares up at the cross. The depiction isn’t gruesome, per say, but isn’t exactly the nicest. He’s never been repulsed by blood or gore, something that drew him to athletics and debates on a revolution. Henry is against the revolution. His mother doesn’t know what to think. John argues on the behalf of the rising organization known as the Continental Congress not because of his beliefs, but because he wants to fight. He tells Henry he believes in the revolution. He lies through his teeth every time. 

The cross has been a symbol of sacrifice for Christians for centuries, symbol of how Christ gave his life for humankind’s sins to be forgiven. The most common depiction of him in America is his helpless body hanging from a cross - nailed there, a crown of thorns upon his head. And yet John stands here, staring up at the cross, thoughts of blood and urging on this war just to fight. Their sins were forgiven before, but will they ever be forgiven now? Bloodlust is common in the American Colonies, John thinks. He rocks back on his heels, then forward onto the balls of his feet. 

Would they be forgiven now? Would they? John licks his lips, closes his eyes, imagines if Christ were in front of him, alive, what would he say? “Do you forgive us?” John would ask. 

_ “I do.” _

A cheer resonates through the church and John smiles. 

“You may kiss the groom.”

Thomas leans forward, places a hand on John’s cheek. “You okay with this?” he asks lowly. John casts a glance around the church - the expectant eyes of their family and close friends, all anxious to watch them complete the union, finish the ceremony. Thomas bites his lip, and John follows the movement with his eyes, before yanking them up to Thomas’ face. His hair is loose around his face, and the way the light filters through it makes it look like a halo. With this and the beautiful quality of his voice earlier, John wonders if he isn’t actually an angel. 

He gives one last glance up to the cross before whispering “yeah” and pulling Thomas to him by the hips, pressing their lips together. Thomas’ arms come up to wrap around his shoulders and John smirks against his mouth. Enjoys the feeling of being so close. Closes his eyes and thinks of the revolution. 

_ Soon. _

* * *

Monticello is large, and comparable to the estate Thomas’ parents had owned. John steps a foot inside and immediately his eyebrows go up at the architecture. 

“French,” his mother had said as she breezed past him, directing slaves on where to take boxes of John’s things. Thomas pointed them to the second bedroom. 

“Didn’t think you’d want to sleep with me,” he’d explained in answer to John’s unspoken question. He wiggled his eyebrows. “At least, not yet.”

John had snorted. “Grow up,” He’d said, and shoved him. 

A dinner had been prepared by Thomas’ slaves, and their mothers had joined them for the meal. Sitting at the table was awkward, just the four of them - Thomas and John locking eyes and looking away, John fiddling with his two rings, unused to the feeling. Thomas seems perfectly composed, answering John’s mother’s questions as she continuously asks about building Monticello, how much it cost and how long it took. “A long time,” Thomas responds with a laugh. “I don’t know. I didn’t really keep track. Just something to keep my mind off grief.” He swirls the wine in his glass, watches as it gradually slows down and sips lightly. 

James shows up halfway through the dinner, and seems taken aback at John’s presence. “Mrs. Laurens,” he says, and bows, presses his lips to her knuckles. She giggles, flattered. “No need to stand for me,” He says. The rest of the room - which had stood, other than John - reclaims their seats. 

“Join us, will you?” Thomas says. 

James laughs. “I’d be intruding. What I wished to say can wait. I’ll send a letter by courier, Thomas.”

“I’ll eagerly await your correspondence,” Thomas says. James inclines his head and exits. 

“Your friend seems nice,” John’s mother says. 

John coughs lightly into his napkin, and Thomas eyes him. “Yes, well. We’ve been friends for years.”

“Indeed?”

“Mm.” Thomas smiles again, but it’s tight lipped. 

“Now dear, don’t be impolite,” Thomas’ mother admonishes. 

“Of course, Mother. Apologies, Mrs. Laurens.”

“No need, Thomas.”

Silence for a little besides clinking of silverware. 

“How is your law practice going?” John’s mother asks. “You were persecuting runaway slaves, were you not?” 

John sets his silverware down with a clatter and pushes away from the table. He feels like he’s going to be sick.  _ Thomas isn’t - no. _

“Defending,” Thomas corrects, and rests a hand on John’s knee, from under the table. John scoots his chair back, and picks up the hand. He squeezes it, trying to convey a  _ sorry _ . Relief flows through him because no one ever takes his abolitionist ideals positively, but maybe Thomas will. 

The corner of Thomas’ mouth lifts. 

“Really.” John’s mother’s nose wrinkles. “Isn’t that hypocritical of you? You own over six hundred slaves, yourself.”

“None of the slaves I defend are mine,” Thomas says. “Stealing slaves from under someone else’s nose will weaken my opponents in the industry. Then, once the concept of slavery reaches a point where the amount of slaves one owns is not an indication of wealth or status, I will free every single bound man, woman, and child on this land.”

Thomas’ mother and John’s mother exchange glances. “Thomas, are you sure that’s a good -”

“Yes,” Thomas says resolutely. “Slavery is a sin, Mother.”

“But they are inferior, do you not believe that they should serve us?” 

“I believe every man has the right to freedom,” Thomas says. It’s an eerie echo of the Continental Congress’ statements so far. “Despite their appearance and their, as you said, inferiority -” John rips his hand away. Thomas doesn’t react. “- they should not be bound to work for so-called ‘Masters’.”

“Do you honestly believe they would be able to live among us as  _ equals?” _

“I never said anything about equality, Mother. Regardless, I would suggest a separate state, or sending them back to where we stole them from.”

“They’ve multiplied like rabbits, we wouldn’t be  _ able _ to send them back,” John’s mother argues. 

“And whose fault is that?” Thomas smiles again. It’s not a nice smile. “As the wife of a slave trader, Mrs. Laurens, I would hope you know.”

“ _ Thomas _ ,” his mother reprimands. 

“Apologies, again. Perhaps it is best to leave politics and law behind at the dinner table?” 

“Agreed,” John’s mother says. She looks shaken. 

John contemplates reaching for Thomas’ hand again.  _ I never said anything about equality. _ The phrase coming from Thomas’ lips had been… odd. John looks at him, and he’s opened up again, eyes sparkling as he lightly counters John’s mother’s comments.  _ Equality _ . 

Thomas’ hand rests on John’s thigh again, and he traces something. Words. 

_ All men are created equal. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the-girlnightwing.tumblr.com hmu w prompts n shit ;;;))) (new blog)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thomas stop keeping secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jealous, john? *eyes emoji*  
> did you know that thomas jefferson loved chocolate before it was cool? what a nerd  
> I don't own the declaration of independence, at the end of this chapter it's quoted

“The fuck is that?” John asks, staring out at the layer of white covering the field. “The  _ fuck is that?” _

“Snow,” Thomas says, voice muffled by the table he’s face-planted on. “Snow. Goddammit. It wasn’t  _ supposed to snow.” _

“The weather hates you, Thomas,” John says. He’s jumping up and down, staring intently through the window. “Look at it, though! Little white flakes, falling from the sky.”

“Disgusting,” Thomas says. 

John refrains from slapping him. “C’mon, let’s go outside!”

“I’m not going outside while it’s  _ snowing!” _

“But I  _ wanna _ ,” John whines. “ _ Please? _ ”

“You’re a fucking child, Laurens,” Thomas grumbles, but he slides off the counter and grabs his jacket, slouching out the room. 

“So what?” John demands, and trails after him, excited. “I’ve never seen this much, or seen it actually  _ fall  _ from the sky.”

“It’s inconvenience powder,” Thomas groans, and pulls on his boots, then a scarf, a hat, and gloves. “Jesus Christ.”

“It’s  _ magical,”  _ John insists. “It’s beautiful.”

“To look at maybe,” Thomas says. “Put on heavier layers, you Southern fuck.”

“Bite me,” John says, but complies. By the time they head out the door, John is waddling with the amount of clothes, and he can’t lift or bend his arms.

“Think you have enough clothes on?” Thomas says sarcastically, pushing open the door and scowling at the immediate onslaught of cold, frozen water. “Fuck, why did I agree to this?”

“Cos you fucking love your husband,” John says viciously, and jumps out into the cold. He whoops in joy, and Thomas grumbles, but follows. 

Only to be hit in the face with a ball of snow. “Goddammit John,” he yelps.

“Fight me!” John yells, and runs out further. 

“I’m not moving!” Thomas yells back. He closes the door and folds his arms.

When he finally manages to drag John back inside, it’s nearly dark out and both of them are soaked and shivering. 

“That was a terrible idea,” Thomas says.

“That was the best idea,” John counters, shedding his clothes in the entryway. 

Thomas makes a noise, flushing and turning away abruptly. 

“That’s cute of you,” John says, “Real cute. We’re married, Thomas. It doesn’t matter if we see each other naked. Take off your clothes, you’ll get sick.” 

Thomas sheds his own clothes, but keeps his eyes averted. “I’m eleven years older than you,” He says. “I feel like -”

“Don’t say it,” John interrupts. “Like you said, there are worse age differences. And anyway, I’m of age.”

“Eleven years, John.”

“Double my age minus seven,” John says. “Eighteen twice is thirty-six. Losing seven is twenty-nine. You’re fine.”

“Borderline,” Thomas replies.

“Well, next year it won’t be. Seriously, Thomas. It doesn’t matter.” 

Thomas tenses as John approaches, and flinches when John touches his shoulder. “Thomas -”

“I’ll be in my room,” Thomas says abruptly. He practically runs away calling over his shoulder, “Leave the clothes, someone will clean them up!”

“Fuck that,” John decides, and gathers them all into his arms. He takes them to his own room, dumps them into the laundry chute. He gets to the bath later, warming the water and stepping in with a hiss of relief. He sinks down, closes his eyes, and replays his memories. If only they could do that every day… 

* * *

Naturally, John’s sick the next day. 

“Idiot,” Thomas grumbles, back of his hand pressed to John’s forehead. “I’ll ban everyone from the house for the day, so no one gets sick. Do you have soup preference?”

“If you’re sending your slaves away -”

“I can cook,” Thomas says. “I’m quite good at it, actually. 

“Then why don’t you do it more often?” 

Thomas smooths a hand over John’s hair. “I’m constantly busy,” he says. “I don’t have time.”

John hmphs. He’s struggling a little to keep his eyes open, exhaustion setting in quickly. 

“Go to sleep,” Thomas says. He stands, and says, “I’ll be back soon with food. Sleep, it’ll help you get better faster.”

He does return, but John is sleeping, so he leaves again. The second time he checks on him, John is awake, struggling to sit up. “John,” He says, worried. He sets the tray with the bowl of soup down on the bed away from where John is squirming. “Stop moving.”

“But I wanna get up -”

“No,” Thomas says firmly. “You’re not moving from this bed.”

“But -”

“John.”

John sits, stares at Thomas for a moment before sighing and collapsing back onto the pillow. “I’m sweaty,” He complains. 

“Eat your food and then you can take a bath.”

“You gonna assist me with that, too?” John mocks, taking a sip of the soup.

Thomas just arches an eyebrow.

“Oh Christ, you are,” John says, setting down the bowl. “Thomas, that’s not necessary.”

“You had no problem prancing around naked last night,” Thomas points out. 

John flushes red. “Um.”

Thomas smirks, sits back proudly. “I win,” he mouths. 

John restrains the urge to stick out his tongue. 

He finishes quickly, and tries to stand on his own, but immediately his knees buckle and he almost falls. Thomas catches him and helps him the rest of the way to the bathroom. Thomas picks up the bucket of water just inside the door and dumps it into the bath, but then hesitates. “Do you want me to leave?” He asks. 

John considers his options. “No.”

“Alright.” Thomas looks away again as John undresses. John thinks it’s silly, as Thomas will likely be helping him bathe, but he understands the need for some kind of… safety isn’t quite the right word.

John steps into the bath carefully, conscious of his footing, holding onto the sink. He waits until he’s completely immersed in water to say, “You can look now.”

Thomas turns back, picks up the sponge and bends down so he’s kneeling by the tub. He dips the sponge in the water and hesitates. 

“It’s not the fact that it’s technically servant work that’s bothering you, is it?”

“No,” Thomas says. “Not at all. Just... thinking.”

“Thinking too much,” John says. 

Thomas rolls his eyes and begins to scrub, moving his wrist in small circles across John’s torso. John relaxes a little. 

Their marriage is not usually an intimate one. Neither are particularly touchy feely, and they sleep in different rooms, still. The closest they get is seeing each other naked, and holding hands or linking arms. Never anything like this. John wonders how he’ll return the favor.

The scrub feels heavenly, all the dirt and sweat being shed like a layer of skin. Thomas is  _ good _ at it, too, something John had never managed. He never understood how to move his hand in the gentle way Thomas is doing now. 

The water is warm, and so is Thomas’ other hand, when he rests it on John’s shoulder. The contact almost burns, and John holds back a groan. The hand and the sponge slide lower, and John exhales sharply through his nose. 

Thomas washes around John’s crotch, not daring to go anywhere near. He finishes scrubbing John’s thighs, pushes him forward, and gently runs over his back. He cleans the sponge as best he can before dropping it into the water, before gathering John’s hair into his hand. He lathers in shampoo, massaging John’s scalp. “Good?” He murmurs.

“Mm.” John stays as still as he can, closing his eyes as an accidental tug on a piece of hair sparks something inside him, something warm and good and  _ electrifying. _

“John,” Thomas says quietly. John licks his lips, swallows. Thomas stops running his hands through John’s hair to pick up the little scoop and carefully pour water on his head. He rinses out the shampoo, and pauses. 

John shudders as Thomas’ hand runs through his hair once more, before sliding down his back. They reach his lower back before heat lights up his body, a contrast to the cold he’d been feeling for the past night. The warmth spreads, and John only just bites back a moan. Sparks spread from every point of contact Thomas makes with John’s skin, setting his nerves on fire and making him wish for more, more,  _ more. _

But Thomas is gone. 

He moves away, stands quickly. His face is flushed, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Will you be able to dry yourself without assistance?” He asks stiffly. 

John’s mouth is dry, so when he swallows it makes a clicking noise. “Yes. I, uh. Thank you.” 

Thomas only gives the ceiling a tight smile before exiting quickly. 

John stares after him, hurt. Was it something he did?

* * *

“Thomas, the gala starts in twenty minutes and we haven’t even left the goddamn house!” John yells up the stairs. “I may have the option of skipping this one but  _ you  _ can’t.”

Thomas comes barrelling down, and almost bulldozes over John completely. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“Thomas,” John snaps.

Thomas immediately remembers what he had been doing and snatches up John’s wrist in a tight grip that makes it clear he’s not letting go anytime soon. “ _ You’re not skipping this one.  _ If I have to go, you have to go too.”

“Yes, we’ve covered this, please calm down.”

“I’m not going alone to a -”

“- House full of simpering ladies and flattering men trying to extract top secret details from within your ribs, I  _ know,”  _ John says. “They’re not all vultures, sweetie.”

“You don’t know that, honeybun,” Thomas shoots back sarcastically, and sweeps from the room to find his coat, dramatically shouting, “you don’t know  _ me!” _

“I married you,” John yells back. “I know your every dirty little secret!”

Something crashes in the other room and John rolls his eyes.  _ Fucking drama queen.  _ When Thomas emerges he’s flustered, but he has his coat.

It’s another ten minutes before they head off, and the Madisons’ manor is almost forty minutes away. 

“We’re late,” John grumbles, sliding down his seat. “And it’s your fault.” 

“Stop moping,” Thomas says, adjusting his cravat. “James is my friend, he won’t be offended.”

“Half an hour late,” John says, arms folded tight across his chest. 

“Fashionably late,” Thomas corrects with a sniff. The carriage rattles, and he leans over and peers down at John, eyebrow raised. “Are you quite alright?”

“Peachy,” John says. 

Thomas sighs, and hauls him up. John concedes to sitting properly on the seat, but refuses to unfold his arms, scowl firmly set on his face. 

“We don’t have to introduce ourselves as married,” Thomas says eventually, figuring that’s what John’s upset about. He’s tempted to feel hurt, but at this point he’s lucky John’s even talking to him. Most arranged marriages don’t go half as well as his with John has been for the past two years. They’d been sort of friendly - though sometimes it spiraled downward. John had tried to make breakfast one day, and ended up burning it, would’ve ended up burning the house down if one of Thomas’ kitchen slaves hadn’t smelled the smoke and rushed in to discover a frantic John Laurens fanning the fire - making it worse. 

“We have slaves for that,” Thomas had said, frowning as John recounts the event. “You don’t need to make food.”

John’s expression had darkened. “ _ You _ have slaves,” he said. “I don’t believe in owning human beings.”

“Neither do I, but -”

“Then why do you own so many?”

“Because -” Thomas had hesitated, unsure. He didn’t know, himself. Still doesn’t. “- free labor defines the southern economy, you  _ know  _ this. Once we find a solution to the problem, I’ll free every last one of them, but now -”

“Free labor is only free because you are taking away from the rights of other individuals,” John had said. “You, who advocates so heavily for so-called “freedom”, for  _ independence.” _

Independence. And isn’t that the crux of the thing? No taxation without representation, freedom from the English, independence from Britain. Removal of the Red Coats, elimination of the loyalists. Preparation for the looming war. “To be prepared for war is one of the most effective means of preserving peace,” Washington had murmured to him, clapping his shoulder as he passed. “So be prepared, Jefferson. You will  _ need _ to be ready.”

And yet, for people who have labored so long and hard for independence from Britain, the Continental Congress has never once mentioned emancipation of the enslaved race in America. Though likely for good reason -  _ focus on Colonial independence first, _ Thomas thinks to himself. He glances at John - still pouting - and sighs internally.  _ Then you can stop the expansion of the machine. _

“If you’re comfortable,” John says, “Then yes, if we could not let others know we’re married, I would be infinitely more relaxed.”

There’s a pang in Thomas’ chest, but he ignores it. “Alright.”

They spend the rest of the ride in uneasy silence.

They arrive, as expected, thirty minutes late. A slave greets them, helps both of them out of the carriage. Thomas sees John’s clenched jaw and turns abruptly, cupping a hand over John’s cheek. He looks into John’s eyes and says, “Leave alone the slave thing. Just for now.”

John swallows, and Thomas can feel his pulse begin rushing as his heartbeat quickens. His throat works, and he averts his gaze, opting to stare somewhere over Thomas’ shoulder instead. 

“John,” Thomas says, but it’s uncertain now. His thumb subconsciously brushes over John’s cheekbone. Something inside him twinges, and he breathes shakily. 

“Yeah,” John finally says, voice raspy. He licks his lips, and Thomas sees his gaze dart to Thomas’ own, alerting him to their proximity. 

Thomas backs up, pulling his hand away. Adrenaline is pumping through his veins and his hands are shaking, but he doesn’t know why. It’s just John. They’ve been friends for years… 

“Let’s go in,” John says finally, breaking the tense silence. He begins trudging up the path, not waiting or looking back to see if Thomas follows. 

Thomas swallows thickly and hurries after him. 

* * *

The gala itself is relatively uneventful at first. John and James have their customary glare-and-bitchface exchange, and Thomas hastily intervenes by pulling John over to the food tables and shoving a plateful of everything with chocolate into his hands. “Eat,” he says lowly. 

“Don’t try to placate me,” John grumbles, even as he shoves what looks like a pastry into his mouth. “Chocolate won’t appease me.”

“You seem pretty appeased,” Thomas says drily, and pulls him to a corner, pushing him into a chair. “Sit and eat, John.” 

John settles into the chair, but he’s scowling, and biting the food like he’s imagining he’s crushing Thomas’ skull. 

“Cute,” Thomas decides, and tugs on a strand of John’s hair. 

“Fuck off,” John says around his glass of chocolate wine. “I’m terrifying, fuck you.”

“Cute,” Thomas reaffirms, and grins when John scrunches his nose. “ _ Cute.” _

“Thomas?”

Thomas turns to acknowledge James, and pauses in surprise at the kid - and he is a kid, looks younger than John - next to him. “James.”

“This is Aaron,” James says, and the boy - Aaron - inclines his head slightly. “Surname Burr. From the New York area. Law degree.”

“Really.” Thomas studies him, and tilts his head in appraisal. “You met at Princeton?”

“Yes,” Aaron says, and offers his hand. “Graduated three years ago.”

“Young,” Thomas comments, and takes it. 

“Yes,” Aaron repeats. “I was fifteen.”

“Good on you,” Thomas says. 

John is still sulking in the corner, but he’s eyeing Thomas and Aaron speak as if waiting for an inevitable punch. 

“It’s an honor,” Aaron says softly, and Thomas tenses. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Not just from James. Your writing -”

“Is best kept from the public ear,” Thomas interrupts. He looks pleased, though, and leans closer as the conversation furthers. “Though with that law degree and undoubtedly brilliant brain of yours -”

“- I could be of use? James mentioned.”

“Confident as well. Good.”

John coughs loudly into a napkin, re-alerting them to his presence. “What’s this about top secret writing?”

Aaron raises an eyebrow and in the most monotonous voice John has ever heard, responds, “Nothing of import.”

“Clearly it’s important, if -”

“John,” Thomas tries. 

“I have a right to know.”

“What right?” Aaron asks, seeming genuinely curious. John hates him for that. 

“My right as his  _ husband _ ,” he hisses, and latches onto a surprised Thomas’ arm. 

“My, my,” Thomas says, and peers down at John bemusedly. “Is that jealousy I sense, Laurens?”

“No,” John snaps. “I just don’t appreciate being left out.”

“We can see that,” Aaron says, and John glares at him, opens his mouth to say something, but James sidles his way back into the little circle they have and wraps his arm around Aaron’s waist. 

“Yes?” He says to their shocked gazes. He leans his head on Aaron’s shoulder, and Aaron doesn’t flinch. 

“So -” Thomas ventures. 

“Yes,” James repeats, not waiting for him to finish. 

“That makes so much sense,” Thomas mumbles to himself. James swats at him. 

John and Thomas end up leaving early, citing exhaustion as their reason. 

Thomas is still reeling from the revelation that James and Aaron are an item, surprised that James would willingly attach himself to anyone. James had always been a little reclusive, not willingly talking to anyone. It took long enough for him to open up to  _ Thomas, _ and they’d been friends long before James really started speaking to him in more than one word at a time.

John, meanwhile, is beating himself up on his actions. Jealousy, really? They don’t even really love each other. The marriage was out of convenience. It wasn’t for feelings. He has no right to be jealous. (So why does he feel like this? Why did he want to assault Burr while he and Thomas were talking? When James attached himself to Burr, why did his stomach drop? Why did the feeling get worse? Why does he feel like something is missing?) Something  _ is _ missing, though. John doesn’t know what, but there’s an air about Thomas - he’s hiding something. And that conversation he had with Burr, what was that? Writing and confidence. How Burr was confident and could be of use. Of use for what?  _ This won’t work, _ John thinks.  _ This marriage won’t work if he withholds information from me. _

“Are you alright?” Thomas asks John, helping him down from the carriage. Monticello looms, sparse candles lit through the building illuminating the windows and creating the illusion of eyes. John wants to exhale hard enough that they blow out. Take away the eeriness of the house Thomas designed himself. Wants to run through the expansive cotton fields and scream. But he regains his sense of propriety. Sucks a breath in through his teeth. 

“I’m fine,” he says. Smiles, and takes Thomas’ hand. 

Exhales. 

* * *

“Thomas!” John hollars. 

Thomas sticks his head into the kitchen. “Yes?”

“Come taste this!”

“Oh hell no,” Thomas says, and tries to retreat, but John snatches him by the collar and drags him back into the room. “This is bullying,” Thomas grumbles, and keeps his mouth stubbornly shut. 

“Come on,” John says. He makes a buzzing noise, and waves the spoon around. “Bzz bzz, it’s a bee! Open wide!”

“Why do children fall for that?” Thomas asks indignantly, but in doing so he opens his mouth and John shoves the spoon in. “Mmph,” Thomas protests. 

“It’s not  _ bad _ ,” John says. “Admit it. I’m getting better.” 

Thomas takes the spoon out of his mouth gingerly. “John, that’s a  _ soup _ . Soups are, like. Child’s level cooking.”

“Fuck you,” John grumbles, and folds his arms. “You’re supposed to be like, ‘oh John, darling, that was amazing!’” There’s a beat of silence where the two hold eye contact with completely straight faces before John cracks and starts cackling. “Okay, sorry, that was bad.”

“Very,” Thomas agrees. “Never do that again.”

“Shut up,” John says. “You’re rude.”

“I’m aware.”

* * *

John wanders through the halls of Monticello, bored out of his mind. 

There’s a giggle, and then a slave girl - around ten years old, by the looks of her - slams right into him. “Oof!” he says, and she falls. “Are you okay?”

She doesn’t speak, staring up at him, terrified. He’s reminded of how he appears - light skinned and free, rich by his clothes. Tall and imposing.  _ Dammit. _

He kneels down to get to her eye level. “Hey, don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.”

“Mama says the rich free men will always hurt us,” the girl whispers. “Mama says we’re to remain out of sight.”

“Your Mama is only part right,” John says gently. “I won’t hurt you, but most rich free men probably will. It’s terrible, but that’s the world right now.”

“Why are  _ you _ nice, if that’s the world right now?” 

John swallows. “Because I don’t believe owning other humans is right,” he says. “Here.” He holds out a hand. She takes it, and he pulls her up. Her hand is calloused, and he can feel scars across the palm. 

“What’s your name?”

She bites her lip and shakes her head violently. “I did a bad thing, and Mama says not to tell the free men my name if I’ve done a bad.”

“You’ve done nothing bad,” John reassures her. “I just want to know what to call you.”

She stares at him with big, doe eyes, and John wonders how anyone could ever hurt her - she’s a sweet little girl. 

“Sally,” she says. Hesitates. “Sally Hemings.”

* * *

“We could do with a change in scenery,” Thomas says. They’ve been married for three years. Three years full of some kind of (positive?) tension between them neither of them are willing to be the first to bring up. Three years of furtive glances, unnoticed by the other. Three years, and they haven’t left Monticello for an overnight trip yet. “Don’t tell me you actually  _ like _ being stuck in the middle of nowhere, Virginia.” 

“Well, no, but. Pennsylvania?” 

Thomas shrugs one shoulder. “It’s a nice state.” 

“Colony?” 

“Yes. That.” 

“I don’t know,” John says. 

“Have you ever been?”

“Once. I was little.” 

“So,” Thomas says, and sets down his cutlery. “Think of it as an adventure.”

John sighs, and stabs his omelette maybe a little harder than necessary. “I don’t know.”

“You can stay here,” Thomas says. “But John, I don’t exactly have a choice.”

“But you can’t tell me exactly  _ what _ work you have to go to Pennsylvania to do?”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says in lieu of an answer. John shakes his head and thinks about Aaron Burr, saying,  _ I’ve heard a lot about you _ . He wonders, wonders if that “lot” was about Thomas’ secret work. Probably. 

“ _ Why _ can’t you tell me?” John asks, leaning forward. Thomas scoots his chair back almost imperceptibly. But John notices. John takes in every detail. John’s pretty sure he knows every single one of Thomas’ tells by now. 

“I can’t say.”

“You can’t tell me why you can’t tell me.”

Thomas bites his lip, looks to the ceiling for guidance. 

John thinks of the cross depiction in the church.  _ Sacrifice _ , he thinks. The revolution has been quiet. Too quiet. They’re planning something. Something big, big enough to fuck up the colonies’ relations with Britain  _ bad _ . John has been listening carefully. Using an alias, slipping his way into the revolution’s line of spies. And whispers along the grapevine point to one word. 

_ Philadelphia _ .

* * *

They’ve been in Pennsylvania for a year, Thomas disappearing from 8am to near 9pm every weekday.. But today… 

John wakes up and something is different. The air - it’s tense, almost crackling with energy. Thomas is sitting in the kitchen, and he looks terrible. His shoulders are hunched and his hair is limp and he has dark circles under his eyes. John checks the clock - 10am. Tuesday. 

“I have to do something,” Thomas says, eyes averted. John reaches out to him but he twists away. “John -”

“Whatever you need to do,” John says, “I’m sure it’s important.”

“It is,” Thomas says, and looks up for the first time that morning. There’s a spark in his eye, something kindling. An excitement John has never seen before. “It’s the start of something great, John! I’m going to make history, I just  _ know  _ it.”

John swallows a lump in his throat and forces a smile.  _ I, _ Thomas had said. Not we. They aren’t a unit yet, to him. He doesn’t think he can trust John with whatever this assignment is. “Good luck,” he says, and twists his fingers in the fabric of his shirt. 

“I -” Thomas hesitates, pulls him close. Presses a kiss to the crown of John’s head and whispers something in French John can’t understand. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” John says. “What will you need from me, during this time?”

“Space,” Thomas says, swallows. Looks away. “I need to stay locked in my study for the majority of time. I’ll come out for food, if you’d like to join me, but I’ll likely eat fast or bring the food back to my study.”

“You didn’t bring -” John struggles to force the word out. “You didn’t bring any slaves up, will you make your own food?”

“Yes,” Thomas says. “I’ll leave some for you, Lord knows I wouldn’t trust you to cook for yourself.”

“Thanks,” John says, relieved. He’d been about to ask.

An awkward pause.

“John, thank you. I’m sorry to do this to you.”

“It’s fine,” John says, but he’s steadily losing conviction. “Good luck, Thomas.”

Thomas smiles, but it’s strained. “And you,” he says.

* * *

The first day is fine. The second is okay. By the third John wants to go in and drag Thomas away from his work, but Thomas trusted him, Thomas was more excited about whatever work he’s doing now than he has ever been before. 

By the fourth day, John resorts to talking to the portraits.

Day five is sunday. Thomas emerges dressed his best and offers his arm to John. Together, they walk to the local church.

The service is mediocre, and John spaces out for most of it, staring at the cross. Staring at the statue of the lamb of God. Thinking about the depiction in the small church in the field. 

On the sixth, he yells that he’s going out, gets a grunt of acknowledgement through the door of the study, and tries not to feel hurt by the dismissal. 

Thomas appears on the seventh, looking worn. John looks up, excitedly. “Are you -”

“I scrapped my last three drafts,” Thomas says. His voice is raspy from disuse. “So, no. Not finished. Not close.”

He wanders into the kitchen and tries to pull vegetables out of the cupboards - John had bought some yesterday - but his hands are shaking and he looks like he’s about to collapse.

“Thomas,” John says. He stands, makes his way over. “Please, let me -”

“John, it’s fine -”

“I can cook stew, Thomas. You know that. Let me cook for you, once. If it’s good, I’ll continue cooking. If it’s terrible, you can say I told you so and we’ll be done with it. It’s not like either of us can’t afford to buy more ingredients.”

“Okay,” Thomas agrees. “Okay. I’ll - I’ll sit on the chair.”

“Good idea,” John says, amused. “Rest.”

“Mhm.” Thomas practically collapses into the nearest chair. 

“How many hours of sleep per night have you been getting?” John asks.

Thomas barks out a laugh. “Uh, do you want a lie that will make you feel better, or do you want the truth?”

“Lie to me,” John says. 

“Eight hours,” Thomas says with a grin.

“And the truth?”

“Two is a stretch.”

“Jesus, Thomas.”

“I’m trying to get this done as soon as possible, John. I’m  _ trying. _ ”

“Okay, thank you for that, but don’t kill yourself doing it.”

“I’ll make a valiant attempt,” Thomas promises. 

The stew needs to cook for a few more minutes, so John sits by Thomas. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Thomas says with a strained smile. 

“How long do you think -”

“John.” Thomas takes a breath. “Stop asking. Please. I’ll tell you when I’m close to finished. For now, I am not.” 

John swallows.”Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.  _ I’m  _ sorry. I shouldn’t have - I’m stressed. Just don’t talk about that, okay?”

“Okay.” 

They sit in silence until the stew is finished. 

The silence continues for the rest of the day. 

* * *

Day eight. Nothing.

Day nine. Nothing.

Day ten. Nothing.

Day eleven. 

“Our anniversary is in three days,” John says. 

Thomas looks up, startled. “Oh, fuck.”

“Will you -”

“John. I’m sorry. I need at least - at least a week. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t take a break?”

“No, I’m - John I’m really sorry.”

John feels something in his chest drop. Disappointment, he knows. But something else, something… “You - not even one day. And you still can’t tell me what you’re doing,”

“You’ll find out,” Thomas says. 

“What?”

“You’ll find out when I finish,” he repeats. “It’ll be public. You’ll see. I promise, John. You’ll know when I’m done.”

John watches him in disbelief as he stands, drops his dishes in the sink and exits the room. “I’ll know,” he repeats. “It’ll be public.” Published. Publicized.  _ I’ve heard a lot about you. _

Documents. Continental Congress. Rumors of someone - young. Someone writing a document. Traced words on his leg under the table -  _ all men are created equal. _ A document proclaiming freedom. 

The cross, the way Thomas had raised his arms in an imitation of Christ. Sang Ave Maria with an attentiveness to meaning John had never seen before. Secrecy.  _ God, _ John thinks.  _ The secrecy. _

_ I have to go to Pennsylvania.  _

_ The Continental Congress convenes in Philadelphia. _

_ Your writing -  _

* * *

Day twelve. Thomas does not emerge for church. John goes on his own, that day. He stares at the cross again, and for a second thinks he sees a familiar halo of hair framing Christ’s face. He looks again and it’s back to normal. He goes back to the little temporary house and does not leave for the rest of the day. He makes Thomas food - he said he would, after all. He sits in his room and thinks. 

Day thirteen. 

Day fourteen. It’s their fourth anniversary. John buys a cake, cuts a slice and hands it to Thomas, who takes it absentmindedly, nose not leaving his book as he returns to his study.  _ It better be worth it, _ John thinks.  _ It better be fucking worth it. _

Day fifteen, and John thinks about, what if the Continental Congress is trying to jump-start the revolution? Give a big fuck you to Britain, declare freedom and start the war that’s been brewing under the skins of so many loyalists, so many patriots. 

Day sixteen. Thomas leaves his study for longer than fifteen minutes. A record, in these past few days. He cooks dinner before John can, and sits at the table. 

“I’m almost finished,” He says. He nudges the meat around with his fork. “Almost.”

“That’s good,” John says neutrally.

“One more day,” Thomas says. “Then I’ll be gone from eight to six for two days. And then it’ll be over.”

“But will it?” John shoves a bean into his mouth. “What you’re doing - it’s important. It’s starting something.” He chews. Mashes the bean up with his teeth, relishes in the feeling of destruction. “If it’s only the start…” 

Thomas swallows, watching him. “True. But then you’ll know. Then it’ll be active work instead of this.”

_ War is certainly active work _ , John thinks. 

Day seventeen. Thomas emerges midday, satisfied. He has a letter in his hand, and only just swoops down to press a kiss to John’s forehead before he swings up onto a horse and gallops into town. John tries to glimpse the name on the letter, but fails. He’s tempted to go into Thomas’ room to look for what he’d been working on, but decides against it. After all, what if he accidentally destroyed all of Thomas’ work? Then they’d have to go through the whole thing over again. And neither of them would want that. 

Day eighteen and day nineteen, Thomas rides out at eight, returns at six. Embraces John when he arrives home, and presses his lips to John’s forehead like a prayer. 

John recalls the cross, and wonders how accurate the metaphor is. 

Day twenty. 

An announcement is made. The two of them had ridden into Philadelphia. For a market, Thomas had said. To treat themselves, Thomas had said. 

“A MESSAGE FROM THE CONTINENTAL CONGRESS OF THE UNITED STATES!” 

“Oh no,” John says quietly. He glances at Thomas, who has an imperceptible look on his face. 

“THE UNANIMOUS DECLARATION OF THE THIRTEEN UNITED STATES OF AMERICA! WHEN IN THE COURSE OF HUMAN EXISTENCE IT BECOMES NECESSARY FOR ONE PEOPLE -”

“That doesn’t sound like your writing.”

“It was heavily edited.”

“- WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS TO BE SELF EVIDENT, THAT ALL -”

“- men are created equal,” John says lowly in time with the speaker. Thomas’ mouth twists. He’s not surprised at all that John figured it out. Maybe the hints he’d been dropping were purposeful. 

“Come on,” Thomas says, and places a hand on the small of John’s back. Together they walk further away from the speaker, back to the stable they’d tied their horses at. 

“You spent seventeen days doing that?”

“Declaration of Independence,” Thomas says, and John can hear the capital letters. “I had included a phrase that emancipated slaves.”

“And they edited it out?”

“Yes. I have the draft, if you want proof. I can see the argument building in your expression - you don’t want to be angry at me, but you’re a staunch abolitionist and I just wrote an essay about how white men should be free and independant without saying a thing about slaves.”

“It’s hypocritical,” John says. “And terrible.”

“Believe me, I  _ know _ ,” Thomas says. “I know. I tried to talk to them, but I’m young and they don’t listen to me. As much as they trusted me to write this - they just didn’t want the dick jokes Franklin would have added.”

“Have you met George Washington?” John asks, changing the subject. He’s curious. The Continental Congress had named the man their General. If John wants to fight, he’d need to talk to him. 

“Briefly,” Thomas says. “In passing.”

“Would you mind introducing us?” John asks. 

Thomas considers. “I suppose I see no harm.”

John doesn’t mention his want for the war. He smiles, takes Thomas’ hand when Thomas offers to help him onto the horse. 

Thomas mounts his own, and they take off as one, cantering back to the house they’d been staying at in Pennsylvania, before gathering their things and finally, finally heading home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow sally hemings and the DOI  
> (tjeffs hasnt met her yet)  
> the-girlnightwing.tumblr.com hmu w prompts n shit ;;;))) (new blog)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> john no  
> alex no  
> t h o m a s n o

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> explicit sexual content and canon typical racist language  
> italicized racist language after john storms off is quoted from, as it says, query 14 of the Notes on the State of Virginia by Thomas Jefferson

John joins the military the next year, fighting for independence from Britain. Thomas tried valiantly to convince him not to, but nothing would’ve stopped him at that point. This was what he had been  _ waiting  _ for. The opportunity to  _ fight,  _ the opportunity to bring about abolitionist beliefs. Despite this meaning he’d have to be away from Thomas - he could bear it, though. It’s not like the marriage was out of any kind of love.

He meets Lafayette within the first week, becomes instant friends with the frenchman. The two don’t really have much in common, but they both have rings on their fourth finger and neither of them really care if they return home from this. 

Hamilton shows up later, an anomaly in John’s normal kind of friends. A poor immigrant. Not someone he’d necessarily want near him. But he sees something in him - a hunger. Just like John’s own, but for something entirely different.

“ _ Petit lion  _ just wants his voice to be ‘eard,” Lafayette murmurs, tracing his wine glass with a finger. “Per’aps we should give ‘im  _ un chance.” _

“Perhaps,” John says consideringly. He sips his own wine and wonders what Thomas would think about the quality before banishing that thought from his mind. He’d been doing that too often lately, thinking about Thomas in his every waking second before shaking his head like a wet dog and downing whatever alcohol is nearest. He can’t let Thomas consume his life. (It’s been a month since they’ve seen each other, and John thinks about him every day, wonders if it’s some kind of fucked up withdrawal.) But thinking of Thomas - he wonders how Sally is. The two of them had become friends, meeting at the corner where they’d first bumped into each other every wednesday, the day Thomas is usually most busy. He’s worried about her, with someone who believes people of her kind are inferior. 

He hopes the two of them never meet. 

Burr ends up being the one to introduce him and Hamilton. “Fools who run their mouths oft wind up dead,” he says to Hamilton, but the taunt is directed to John so he takes the bait.

“What time is it?” 

“Showtime!” Lafayette yells from across the room. 

Hercules - their friend in another military division - groans and lets his forehead rest against the table. “You’re both so, so gay.”

John snorts, shrugs. 

“Like I said,” Burr says, voice raised so John can hear. But there’s laughter in that, too. They’re not on bad terms, John knows. He’d talked to Burr early on, when they both joined. They bond over being married to rich Virginians whose high governmental statuses and supposed delicate constitutions prevent them from joining the actual fight.

“I’m John Laurens,” John says, sticking his hand out. “You’re in the place to be,” He winks. 

“You’re drunk, Laurens, go home,” Burr tells him, pushing him away. 

“Only two pints of Sam Adams!”

“But he’s working on three,” Lafayette giggles from the background. 

“Shut up Laf you’re not helping.”

“Charming,” Hamilton says dryly. He takes John’s hand and says, “Alex. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Just Alex? Not Alexander?”

“Figured you’ll want a shortened version of my name for when you can’t remember anything but,” Alex says, leaning forward with a smirk. 

“Oh,” Burr says. He goes ignored. 

“Are you implying something, Mr. Alex Hamilton?”

“Perhaps,” Alex says. 

“I’m afraid I have to decline, sir, see I’m a real Southern lass, hav’ta stay loyal to my husband,” he says, fluttering his eyelashes exaggeratedly and amping up the accent. 

Alex laughs. “Really.”

“Nah,” John says, and drops the act. “I’m free as a bird, no marital obligations tying me down.” Regardless of the frown Burr gives him, he’s right. He and Thomas had agreed that both of them could take lovers on the side, without worry for jealousy. An arranged marriage is not a marriage out of love, after all. (John keeps telling himself that. He wonders who he’s trying to convince.)

“In that case,” Alex says. 

Despite the nature of their introductory exchange, they don’t fall into bed together until a year of fighting has passed. Between this, though, they spend six months at Valley Forge in close quarters, training all day and all night by barked orders of Baron Von Steuben. In French, so Lafayette and Alex act as translators. 

It’s exhausting. John barely has time to think on anything but war. His free time is spent sleeping and eating. He doesn’t do anything but train.

And yet Thomas still worms his way to the front of his mind. 

Again and again and again. 

His every non-war-related thought is dedicated to his husband. 

He wonders how he can stop. 

* * *

John pursues Alex after the Battle of Monmouth, the tension of the thing radiating through the entire camp. John doesn’t need to say a word for Alex to say “yes”, desperate and breathy, and they reach Alex’s tent in record time. 

They’re tearing off clothes, pressing lips to skin and sucking, moaning and letting hands roam where they hadn’t gone before. It’s skin on skin everywhere, rustling of clothes in the rush to peel them off. Overwhelming. 

“Done this before?” Alex breathes into John’s collarbone. He’s latched on there, teeth gently worrying the skin, tongue darting out to lap at the sweat there. 

John shakes his head then tilts it back. They’re naked, pressing against each other, grinding down on each others’ hips, skimming fingertips over backs and shoulders. Alex lifts up, catches John’s lip between his teeth and cradles his face in his hands. “Let me, then,” Alex says, and pushes so John sits down hard on the cot. Alex sinks to his knees, and pulls John forward. It’s a blur from there. 

Warmth around him, enveloping him, surrounding him. Warmth and heat and a talented tongue that flicks and licks and brings forward sparks. John’s hand finds its way to Alex’s hair somehow, grips and tugs and somehow that makes everything better, makes heat pool into John’s gut and then - he groans, moans, whispers, feels the name before it leaves his mouth and knows he can’t say it but he  _ can’t stop himself  _ so he uses his free hand to silence himself as he says  _ Thomas _ , over and over and over again - he spills into the mouth around his member, whimpers once more into his hand. 

Alex lifts off. “No marital obligation,” he quotes. 

John flushes red. “You heard.”

“Of course I heard, it’s hard not to hear the guy you’re sucking off say someone else’s name.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Alex says. “No strings attached, right?”

“Right.” John doesn’t trust himself to stand. “Do you want me to reciprocate -?”

“Next time,” Alex says, and pats his thigh. “I’m tired, so. That was great, honestly, thank you. Much less tense. I’m kicking you out now.”

John laughs. “Yeah, okay.” 

* * *

“Teach me,” John says, stepping into Alex’s tent. “I’ve never -”

Alex looks up. “You want me to -?”

“Yeah. If you’re willing?”

“Oh, Johnny boy…” Alex grins. “I’m always willing to get a little dick. Or ass. Whichever you’re into.”

“Thank you,” John says. “I’m sorry I had to -”

“Don’t apologize, John, really,” Alex says. “This is so you can impress loverboy, yeah?” Alex had taken to calling Thomas that. Lafayette and Burr find it amusing. John always gets stuck on “lover”.

“Yeah,” John admits. “He’s older. If I ever - I don’t have a hope of ever really getting involved with him for real, but just, y’know. Precaution.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, and smiles. “Close the flap of the tent behind you. Give me a moment to finish up, and I’ll be right with you.”

* * *

He keeps thinking about it. About how Alex’s mouth had felt around him, and how he’d closed his eyes, pictured someone else. “Thomas” slipping past his lips unbidden. 

He keeps thinking about Thomas. Something stirs in his stomach as he does, like a sick feeling, like he left a piece of himself at home. Monticello. When did he start thinking of Monticello as home?

He misses him, John realizes. Actually, genuinely misses Thomas. Something, a feeling, runs through his veins, ice and fire together.  _ It’s an arranged marriage,  _ he repeats to himself. It sounds empty, now.  _ There is no love between us. _

“That’s a lie,” he says out loud. “You love him.” He stares at his rippling reflection in the basin. Splashes water on his face and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You love him,” he repeats. He swallows. It sounds right. It sounds - “you’re in love with Thomas Jefferson,” he whispers. Closes his eyes.

He goes home in a week for a brief rest from fighting due to a broken arm. 

He sees Thomas in a week.

Oh, God.

He’s fucked. 

* * *

The day before he leaves, he and Alex are latched onto each other, sucking bruises into each others’ skin, a claim that means jack shit with the ring on the chain around John’s neck. Which reminds him - “Here,” John says, and pulls a small metal circle off his necklace. Two snakes melded together, biting their own tails. “Thank you for everything. And I’m sorry about - you know.”

“John, you don’t have to,” Alex says. “Honestly, it’s fine.”

“Just take it, Alex,” John says, amused. “It’s not my wedding ring, by the way. That’s the other one.”

“Your wedding ring,” Alex says. “So you _ are _ married.”

“Yeah,” John says. 

“Arranged marriage?” Alex asks, still not taking the ring. 

“Yeah. Parents.”

He hesitates, but he takes the ring. Slips it onto his own chord around his neck. “Thank you,” He says. “I’ll treasure it.”

John smiles. 

* * *

It seems as if nothing has changed. 

Thomas spends more time than he did before - scribbling legislature furiously, working on an emancipation bill on the side. 

John ends up sulking around the house, arm held stiff by some combination of sticks and bandage that John doesn’t really understand. 

“Are you alright?” Thomas asks one day, when he catches John staring at him strangely.

“Yeah. I’m, uh. Fine.” John scurries out of the room, tail between his legs. 

Thomas stares after him, before shaking his head and turning back to his work.

* * *

“You’ve been going to galas for this long and you still don’t know how to dance?” Thomas demands, indignant. 

John huffs and crosses his arms. “When I went to galas I would sneak away with  _ you _ ,” he says. “I never actually  _ stayed _ and  _ danced _ .”

“Reasonable,” Thomas admits. “But now you need to learn.”

John takes Thomas’ offered hand, and they walk together to a more open space. There’s a slave, waiting there, and he begins to play a soft tune on the violin as he sees the two enter. John makes a vague displeased noise, but bites his tongue when Thomas frowns. 

“Step like this,” Thomas says, and points John to move in a circle. Thomas does the same, opposingly. He catches John’s hand, brings them to standstill shoulder-to-shoulder and lifts their joined hands, before nudging John to one side. “Side-step,” he says. “Cross your leg - yeah. And back, now.”

They reach a few steps past where they were originally, and Thomas lets go of John’s hand, pushes his shoulder so he’s turned back facing Thomas. “Step forward,” Thomas says. John follows, and hears Thomas doing the same behind him. 

It goes on for a while, and John wonders at why he’s even bothering. His broken arm is making this harder than it needs to be - and he isn’t going to use the dance anyway. Thomas’ll probably drag him to galas, but he’s had experience running away from them. 

“And bow.”

The slave finishes the song, holds out a long tonic note, resolving the tune in a predictable manner. 

“A minuet, if you would,” Thomas calls, and pulls John forward, flush against his chest. “Place your hand on my shoulder,” he says, and grasps John’s other hand. John follows the instruction, and swallows when Thomas rests his own against John’s waist. 

The other dance was less intimate, less about touch and less focusing on one’s partner. This dance is… it’s close. Thomas spins John around, folds their arms so John’s back is pressed to Thomas’ chest and he’s locked there by their arms, together. It makes it hard to breathe. It makes it hard to concentrate. He revels in the touch of Thomas’ skin, the contact he gets that he can feel, even through their clothes. 

“This is a beautiful minuet,” John murmurs, and tries not to think about the breath Thomas is exhaling hitting his skin. They’re close. Very, very close. 

“I taught it to him,” Thomas says. “Violin has always been my best instrument.”

“Your best?” John says. “How many do you play?”

“Harpsichord, violin,” Thomas lists. “Cello. Voice.”

“A man of many talents,” John quips. 

“I suppose,” Thomas says, purposefully taking John’s joke as serious. 

“Anything else I should know?” John asks, leaning forward. A smirk plays across his lips and he doesn’t stop himself from saying, “Have a shotgun you haven’t talked about? With a long barrel and loaded chambers?”

Thomas flushes bright red, but he’s not the one who knocks them over. John misses a step in the dance, stumbles, and crashes down onto Thomas, who tries to slow and break their fall with his hand but they’re falling too hard and there’s a sickening  _ crunch _ and Thomas yelps, pained. 

“Oh Christ,” John says, and rolls off him. “Shit. Are you okay?”

“Perfectly fine,” Thomas says, trying to put up a facade of being fine, but John can see the gritted teeth, the way he’s clutching his arm and the way his right pointer finger twitches, a tell. 

“No you’re not. Is it broken? Let me see.” 

Thomas reluctantly lets John prod at his arm, and hisses when John touches his wrist. 

“I think it’s broken,” John says. 

“Fuck,” Thomas says. “Shit. At least it’s my non-dominant hand, I guess.”

“You’re lucky,” John says. “Most people would try to break their fall with their dominant one.”

Thomas shrugs. “Guess I’m special.”

John doesn’t say what he wants to say, doesn’t blurt out how nice Thomas looks - how  _ pretty _ , honestly, for lack of a better adjective. He doesn’t tell him how he feels, he just says, “I guess you are,” and takes the bandages offered by the slave. 

He doesn’t know the slave’s name. Thomas probably doesn’t either. He wants to feel bad. He  _ does _ .

But he’s focused on Thomas, in front of him, so he doesn’t.

* * *

That night, when John slides his hands down his pants to bring himself the pleasure he’d been craving since he returned, he thinks of how it felt to lie ontop of Thomas, how it would’ve felt in a bed, how it would’ve felt without the flimsy barrier of cloth between them. He wonders what Thomas would do if he kissed him. He wonders what Thomas would do if John sank to his knees before him. 

His hand speeds up, and he imagines Thomas’ lips against his, covering his body with marks and bruises to show the world they they belong to each other, they are truly a couple and not just two people stuck together out of a marital contract. He imagines Thomas resting heavy on his tongue. He imagines Thomas’ warmth around him, Thomas begging him to  _ move faster harder please _ and the noises his pretty mouth would make, back arching and displaying himself -

His spills into his hand with a choked back moan, whispering “Thomas” like an abandoned prayer.

* * *

Thomas is avoiding him. 

“What did I do?” John grumbles to himself. He’s stomping around the house, looking for the idiot who decided hiding was the best stratagem for whatever he is playing at. “I’ve done nothing wrong this entire time. Except fall on him and make him break his wrist. But then I fixed it. And brought him to a physician.”

He shakes his head, and continues looking. 

He almost gives up, flopping down on the couch, when he hears violin music floating through the halls. 

“Found you,” he says, and stands, following the sound as best as he can. 

He reaches the room they’d danced in, and is surprised to see Thomas actually playing the violin with the bandages still on his broken wrist. The violin is switched, so he’s holding the bow in his left, broken wrist hand, and the neck of the instrument in his dominant hand. He keeps the wrist of the hand holding the bow completely stiff, so he doesn’t aggravate it. 

The song he’s playing is playful and sweet, and his eyes are closed. He doesn’t notice John enter the room. 

John watches him closely, watches the way he sways, dives with the ritardandos and crescendos. Frowns in concentration during the pianissimos.

_ He  _ is _ beautiful _ , John thinks. And perhaps that was the problem from the beginning.

The fact that he’s so fucking beautiful, that he was always so nice - John was helpless from the start. 

Thomas dips his head again, and John jumps when he sighs. He looks at peace - like he had in the church on their wedding day, singing a praise to the mother of God.  _ Hail Mary.  _ The song is coming to a close - predictable minuets. The last note rings, and Thomas lowers the bow.

“Boccherini,” Thomas says, not opening his eyes. “But you knew that.” He opens one eye to squint at John. “What are you doing here?” 

“Looking for you,” John says, and tries not to continue staring. 

“Why?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“No I’m not,” Thomas says, but he’s starting to put his violin away, eyes firmly glued to the case. His pointer finger twitches. 

“Yes,” John says, and advances. He rests a hand on Thomas’ shoulder, but Thomas jumps and squirms away. “See - and that.”

“You startled me,” Thomas says. He places his hand where John can’t see it, but John sees a muscle in his forearm jump. Twitch. Tell.

“Right.” He watches in silence until Thomas closes the last latch. “Did I do something to upset you?”

“No,” Thomas says. No twitch.

“But?” John prompts.

“It’s nothing,” Thomas says. 

He starts to leave, but John grabs his wrist, tight, and says, “Stop lying to me.” He sounds much more commanding -  _ demanding  _ \- than he meant to.

Thomas audibly swallows, eyes locked on the place John is gripping. “I’m not.”

John doesn’t need to look down to know his finger has twitched. “You are.”

“John, just drop it.”

John hesitates. “Okay,” he says, and lets go of Thomas’ arm. “Okay. Fine.” 

Thomas eyes him for a moment, before slowly turning away and heading out of the room. “Thank you,” he says before he shuts the door.

John is left standing alone in the room, arm outstretched, and with more new questions than questions answered. 

* * *

It’s Wednesday. John makes his way to their normal meeting space, armed with his frustrations, when he hears her. 

Sally is crying. 

“Oh shit,” he says, and starts to run. He finds her, eventually.

She talks. He listens. 

He’s going to kill Thomas.

* * *

“I’m going to France next year.” 

John looks up so fast he almost gets whiplash. “What?”

Thomas shakes his head. “They’re sending me to France. We need the French’s support, and Franklin has been overworked, he’s talking retirement.” 

“But why you?”

“I have relative fame from writing the declaration,” Thomas says. “And they need a French speaker. I’m the best they have.”

“But can’t they send -” John scours his mind for a name, but comes up blank. “I don’t know, but someone other than you?”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says. “I  _ did _ ask. I  _ begged.  _ But they really have no one up to their standards other than me and Franklin.”

“Okay,” John says. “Okay.”

“I’ll miss you,” Thomas says. It’s genuine, John notices.

“I’ll miss you too,” John says.  _ And I wish you knew just how much. _

* * *

Thomas is hiding again.

John is determined to find him and make him talk this time. He can’t take the tension between them - not if he doesn’t know why the tension exists. 

He scours the entire house before he thinks to check Thomas’ bedroom. 

“Thomas!” He calls, stomping over. “We’re going to have a -”

A moan cuts him off. 

“Oh,” he says.

He makes to leave, knowing immediately what Thomas is doing, but Thomas apparently didn’t hear him, since he groans, a moment later, “ _ John,” _ voice wrecked and breathless. 

John freezes, foot raised in the air, midstep. “Oh,” he mouths. So, tension. That’s - that makes sense.

He turns back around, and hovers his hand over the doorknob. Does he really…?

Yes.

He turns the knob as quiet as he can, pushes open the door and slips inside. The room isn’t dark, but dim. Thomas doesn’t notice him.

John leans on the bookshelf. He gives himself a moment to take in Thomas’ body - he looks gorgeous like this, spread eagle on the bed, sheets bunched at his ankles, fisting his dick. Eyes closed in bliss and lips parted, little sounds escaping him every few moments. His hair is splayed out on his pillow and his muscles clench and release in time.

John waits until Thomas says the word, repeats “John” before he clears his throat. “So,” John says. “About you avoiding me.”

Thomas jumps, scrambling to cover himself. He fails. Very much so. “John!” He says, scandalized.

“Yes, so you’ve said. Many times.”

“You heard.”

“Yeah.” John lets his eyes roam, unashamedly, to where Thomas is trying (and failing) to hide his leaking erection. “You weren’t exactly  _ quiet _ , Thomas.”

“I -” He swallows. 

“It’s fine, though. It solves half of our problems, doesn’t it?” John steps forward, and smiles when Thomas scoots away, still unsure of what John’s endgame is. John climbs onto the bed and straddles Thomas’ torso. Thoughts of Sally come unbidden to the front of his mind, but he banishes them. He can worry about the morality of that later. He cradles Thomas’ face in his hands, and hunches over to get his face close. “You have a really inconvenient bed,” he whispers, and brings their lips together for the first time since the church - the goddamn church, the church where everything started, and everything ties back to.  _ God. _ John laughs into the kiss as Thomas tries to protest the bed comment, before reciprocating the action. 

“Took you long enough,” Thomas breathes when John comes up for air. 

“Oh, shut up.”

Alex fucks like fire, fast and passionate and  _ with feeling _ . Thomas - well. 

Thomas darts his tongue out, licks his lips. John follows the movement. “I want you inside me,” Thomas murmurs, arm around John’s neck keeping him close enough to hear. “I want to feel you -”

“Yes,” John hisses, and pulls up, breaking Thomas’ hold. He sheds his clothes quickly, snatches the oil from the bedside table and settles between Thomas’ legs. “Are you sure -?”

“Just do it,” Thomas says shortly. 

John does not think about the prep much, instead working through the steps methodically. They’re too impatient, both of them. 

“That’s fine,” Thomas says. 

“You’re sure.”

“Yes. Just get on with it.” 

“You make it sound like such a chore,” John says. He lines himself up, feels the heat and slick of Thomas and the oil and holds make the noises he wants to make. “Believe me. This is not a chore.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Thomas says.

John sheathes himself in one push, joining the two of them together, causing them both to let out shouts of mixed pain and pleasure. Thomas feels like heaven around him, and the fact that it’s  _ Thomas _ makes it that much better. Thomas is fucking beautiful, and he’s laying underneath John, opening up for him. “You gonna move?” Thomas asks, and flashes John a grin that screams,  _ bite me _ , a challenge John can’t refuse. “Or you too blissed out for that, little virgin?”

“Not a virgin,” John grunts, and drags out slow. Pushes back, settles deeper and groans, buries his face in Thomas’ neck. 

“Really,” Thomas says, sounding disbelieving. 

“Really,” John says. “But if we’re calling each other things, you’re one to talk, pretty boy.” 

Thomas is startled by that, John can tell - by the look on his face and the groan, deep in his chest, a rumble that builds until he throws back his head to let it out. John thrusts inside him again, presses kisses along his collarbone. “You like me calling you pretty boy,” John says, states more than asks. 

Thomas doesn’t answer, instead wrapping his hand around his dick, jerking himself a few times. John takes that as a yes. 

He fucks him until he unravels, drags it out and doesn’t give him quick relief. Fucks him until it turns into love instead of just-sex, until Thomas is scratching pink lines down his back and practically mewling. Until John is taking him apart, undoing his existence and tying it back down to focus on one thing, tunnel-vision. Thomas grips both sides of John’s face, pulls him up to press their lips together once again, more smashing their faces together than kissing. Both of them are panting and open mouthed. John sees Thomas’ eyes roll up in bliss. 

“Could’ve been doing this,” John says, “For so long. But you had to -”

“Don’t pin this on me,” Thomas huffs, surprisingly coherent. “It’s just as much your fault as it is m -  _ oh, fuck -  _ John, Christ, I -”

“Sh,” John says. “Fuuuuck.”

“ _ My _ line,” Thomas manages, before John reaches down, strokes him, flicks his thumb over the head - and that’s all Thomas can take. He spills into John’s hand, writhing with the force of it. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.”

The contraction of muscles forces John over the edge as well, releasing inside Thomas, filling him with John’s seed. John collapses on top of his husband, too fucked-out to do much else. “No moving,” He says.

“Pull out,” Thomas groans. “But yes. That sounds fine. Wonderful.”

A moment passes before John rolls off him. “So. Feelings.”

“Oh, Christ,” Thomas says. “Those.”

“So they exist?”

“Sure.”

“That’s good. At least it’s both of us.”

“Perhaps.”

“How long?”

“Since you went away for the war,” Thomas says. “I hadn’t realized how much time we spend together.”

“The same for me,” John says. “So, what? It’s not like we can start a courtship or anything, we’re already married.” 

“We spend more time together,” Thomas says. “And we fuck.” 

“Ah, yes. That.” John must sound smug, because Thomas bursts out laughing. “Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“That’s mature.”

Thomas shrugs, reaches down and swipes his finger through the mess in his ass. He examines it before sticking it in his mouth and sucking the semen off. 

_ Huh _ , John thinks matter-of-factly.  _ Well, that’s. Something _ . His body certainly likes the picture Thomas makes; his blood is swiftly headed south once more. 

“Someone’s got stamina,” Thomas says. He reaches over, runs his fingertips over John’s dick. It fills out a bit more, interested in the touch. “Up for round two?”

* * *

“Okay, but,” John says. “Your bed.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Thomas asks defensively. “It’s a perfectly fine bed.”

“It’s in the hallway, Thomas.”

“It sits between two rooms, that does not make it a hallway.”

“Yes it does.” John looks to the ceiling for guidance. The ceiling of a hallway.

“Okay,” Thomas says. “But it’s convenient. I can roll out of bed one way to reach my study, and roll out of bed the other to reach my bedroom.”

“And do you roll across it when you want to get from one to the other?”

Thomas very clearly wrestles with answering that with dignity for a new moments, before settling on saying, “There are other doors.”

“So you  _ do _ roll across the bed to get from one room to the other.” John tries to picture it. He can’t, not without making it extremely comical. He wonders if he could sneak inside Thomas’ room when he’s not looking and just wait for him to cross through. 

“It’s  _ convenient, _ ” Thomas insists.

“If you say so,” John laughs.

They lie together for a moment before John reaches over and grabs Thomas’ hand. “You know,” he says. “I’m glad I walked in on you masturbating.”

Thomas groans. “Can we not talk about that?” 

“Oh but we have to!” John says, sitting up excitedly. “It’s how we first ‘got together’ for real.” 

“I can’t - no. I’m leaving.”

“Come on, Thomas! Just think of all the possibilities! We could recreate the event for our anniversary -”

“ _ No. _ ”

“Please -”

“For the love of God, John,  _ no. _ ”

* * *

“What the fuck is this?” 

Thomas jumps at the snarl, and the thump of a book being thrown down on the table in front of him. 

“Oh,” he says.  _ Notes on the State of Virginia. _

“Query fourteen,” John snaps. 

_ The administration of justice and description of the laws. _ Thomas knows immediately. John can see it click in his mind as he stares at the cover of the thing. At his own name. 

“You published this,” John says. “You fucking published this.” 

“John -”

“We were talking about telling people we’re married, I know. But fuck that. Don’t ever tell anyone you’re in any way connected with me,” John says, and shoves the volume at Thomas. It knocks over a cup, but John doesn’t care. Thomas just stares at him, wide-eyed. “Don’t tell a single goddamned soul, Jefferson,” he says, and storms away. 

The surname will sting. 

John wonders if he was too harsh, but.

_ That immoveable veil of black…  _

_ …very strong and disagreeable odour…  _

_ The blacks are inferior to the whites in the endowments both of body and mind…  _

John has worked hard to get where he is in South Carolina with black freedom. To get the all black military regiment federally approved for individual proposal. He’s worked his  _ goddamn ass off for five goddamn years  _ to push the abolitionist movement to a place where it isn’t at  _ complete _ standstill, and his own husband publishes a book calling those of African descent  _ inferior _ . 

He doesn’t know why he expected any different. 

Thomas will take his privilege and throw it around, show the world he can talk shit because he was born into a family of rich white landowners. He doesn’t care how his slaves feel, doesn’t care that they’re people too. Thomas will take that privilege and he’ll use it to undo years,  _ years _ of hard work John has toiled through. He’ll use it to erase what bright future John has tried to create for black Americans - non-free Americans. 

“John!”

“I’m not speaking to you.” 

“John please, wait -”

“No.”

“I’m sorry -”

“Sorry’s not enough!” John whirls around, glowering. Thomas almost takes a step back. “Sorry’s not enough, Thomas, if word gets out that I’m married to  _ you _ , I’ll be laughed out of every meeting I attend, every attempt I make to further black freedom will be shot down with the argument that  _ you _ are my husband,  _ you _ believe they are inferior therefore they don’t have to listen to a word I say!” He injects as much venom into “you” as possible, spitting anger and almost steaming. “You’re the one who wrote ‘all men are created equal’ but you don’t hold to that statement! You wrote the de facto freedom document of the United States of America but you  _ own _ over six hundred people! You know how much this goddamn movement means to me, while this is just a little thing for you - it doesn’t matter to you if slavery goes or stays. Either way, you win. But you  _ know how much I care about this,  _ and you still chose to  _ publish this! _ ”

Thomas swallows. “I didn’t think -”

“Yeah, you didn’t think. I could tell.” 

_ “Free labor is only free because you are taking away from the rights of other individuals,” _ John said, all those years ago. An argument early on. Something they never quite got past.  _ “You, who advocates so heavily for so-called “freedom”, for  _ independence _.”  _

“This is our only difference in opinions,” Thomas says. “I’m leaving to France before you’ll return from the war, and will stay there for four years. Can we just, please, have a peaceful two months? Yell at me all you want when I get back, but -” his expression crumbles. “I don’t want our last memories together for four years to be of constant arguments.”

John swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “I agree. But we  _ are _ talking, later.” 

“Okay,” Thomas agrees. He shifts, looking hesitant, so John initiates the hug. 

“I’m not that mad at you,” he mumbles. “I’m just upset. It’ll go away.”

“I am sorry, though,” Thomas says. “You were right.”

“Damn right I was.”

Thomas chuckles, and kisses John’s cheek, echoing, “Damn right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok both of them are terrible, terrible people. john needs to be less forgiving tbh  
> the-girlnightwing.tumblr.com hmu w prompts n shit ;;;))) (new blog)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thomas helps lafayette with a document, then returns to america

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahaa angst  
> also some explicit sexual content

They have Christmas together, at least. 

They cook and bake their dinner together, getting distracted only briefly by kissing, and almost burning the meat. They decorate as everything else is cooking, lining the room (just this room, neither of them need anything grandly spread across the house) with tinsel and holly. Two slaves had brought a tree in earlier, but John’s only comment on it was to turn away and cough meaningfully into his fist. Thomas ignored him, not wanting to pick another fight. Thankfully, John had let the matter drop. 

They hang glass ornaments, and feed each other bits of the gingerbread they made with Lafayette’s recipe. “Is your arm healing?”

“It only twinges a little when I move it, so I think so,” John says. “Your wrist?”

“Better,” Thomas says. “Not good. But better.”

John nods, and takes the mince pie out of the oven. “I’m glad.” He slides the pie onto the counter. 

“How many days do you have left here?” Thomas asks, sidling up to him and wrapping his arms around John’s waist.

“Just until New Years,” John says, and turns his head to catch Thomas’ mouth. They stand there for a moment, immersed in each other, reveling in the feeling of being so close. One of the last times they’ll be this close for four years.

“I’ll miss you,” Thomas murmurs, breaking away.

“And I you.” John leans back against him, placing his hands over Thomas’. “The pie will stay warm for a little while, if you want to…?”

“Yeah,” Thomas says, but doesn’t move. 

John sighs, relaxes a little more. “We don’t have to, you know that right?”

“Yeah, I know,” Thomas says.

John squeezes his hand. “This is nice, though.”

Thomas surveys the room, from what he can see. The kitchen is bare normally, separate from the rest of the house. A small wooden table, stools, and shelves are the only furnature. The walls are jagged stone.

But the stone is covered with tinsel and holly and mistletoe. A tree sits in the corner, green branches brightening the room. Red ornaments light it up further, making everything more cheerful. And Thomas is there, with him. 

They’d never really done much for Christmas before, even though it’s supposed to be a family holiday. Thomas had wanted to ask, but John had never seemed enthused, and had mumbled something about his father hating the holiday when Thomas had looked concerned.

“Yeah,” Thomas agrees. He hugs John closer to his chest. “I’m glad you’re home.”

* * *

When John leaves, Thomas doesn’t cry. He hugs him, promises to send letters as often as he can - not very often, given the week it takes for letters to deliver from France to America. 

He wants to say I love you. Tries it, practices it in the mirror in the days leading up to John’s departure, but when it comes time to say it to him, his throat catches and he says, “I -” 

Unable to finish his sentence.

“I’ll miss you,” he says instead, and feels something like a punch to the gut. 

John smiles and says he’ll miss Thomas too, more than Thomas will ever know. He says  _ I love you _ , and Thomas murmurs,  _ and I you.  _

Thomas does not say the word love.

He does not cry when John leaves, smiling and waving to him until the carriage disappears beyond the horizon. 

He does not cry when he sits down for supper alone.

He does not cry when he dismisses the slaves for the following week, thinking of John smiling.

He does not cry when he turns to show John something only to remember that John is gone.

He does not cry when he retires to a cold bed, alone.

When he wakes up, his pillow is wet.

* * *

Thomas spent the year before he left for France alone in Monticello. 

Well. Not alone. Six hundred plus slaves. He sighs, takes a long swig of whatever alcohol the ship captain handed him. 

The important thing is, he wasn’t with John.

The thing about war is that he isn’t entirely sure if John is still alive. Washington would likely get the letter to him out as quick as possible, since they’re acquainted, but letters still take awhile to deliver. John could be dead one day, and Thomas could live it thinking John was alive, but a letter would come a week later telling him that John had died a week and a day before. 

John could be dead and Thomas is helpless in his knowledge of it. 

At least Washington knows of this ambassador’s trip, Thomas supposes. He’ll send the letter to France instead of Monticello. 

It runs a higher risk of being lost, so he’d likely send two. One for Monticello, one for France. 

Thomas shudders, wipes his face with the napkin a crew member provides. Thanks him, and edges along the boat until he reaches his chambers. He sits on the bed, head in his hands.  _ God help him. _

“Stop thinking about death,” he says aloud, just as the boat rocks. “Fuck,” he bites out. “ _ Fuck. _ ”

It’s a long ride to get there. On the way he writes ten letters he’d been putting off, writes one to send to John immediately when they dock, writes a piece about the conditions of workers on the boat, composes a piece of music, shakily hums Boccherini’s Minuet at least twenty times, and contemplates taking out his violin every few minutes before deciding against it every time. 

When they dock in France, the first thing Thomas does after he finds the place Congress has arranged for him to stay in is mail all eleven letters. Then he composes a second letter for John, and sends that also. 

Both letters to John are just vague descriptions of things, nothing too important. 

But the letter he receives,  _ oh. _

_ Dearest Thomas,  _ it reads. 

> _ It has only been a day since you left, though when you receive this it will have been more than seven. I miss you very much, and am loathe to admit I frequently turn to speak with you about my findings of the moment only to feel my heart drop as I realize you are not there. My last letter to Monticello, I fear, must have arrived after you departed for the ship, for I miscalculated the length of days it would take to deliver. I will not tell you its contents, but will wait your response to it when you return. Although, hopefully by that time the war will have ended, and I will be waiting for you and able to tell you in person.  _
> 
> _ You were here for the Battle of Yorktown, I know, and everything is sliding into place following that victory. The French are exceedingly helpful - thank you, my dearest, for though you have been in Paris for a small amount of time, I’m sure your work has been extraordinary in motivating the French to assist. The Marquis de Lafayette - a dear friend of mine - notes that his contacts in his homeland sing high praises of you, though they do not know you well. Should I expect a change in this as they come to know you better? (I jest, I jest.)  _
> 
> _ Also - I had not noticed before, but after learning and feeling your body, I was surprised to note that the Marquis and you look startlingly alike. Do not fret though, he and I are merely friends. No one could replace you in my mind or heart. _
> 
> _ Formalities aside, I find myself longing for you not just to be by my side, but my mind has wandered into thoughts of the more carnal nature. The way you look when you are taken, the arch of your back and your open mouth, pretty face twisted into pleasure as I slide home inside you. The way you feel around me, heavenly and tight, the moans that escape your mouth. My hand is not the same, it is a flimsy replacement. I will think of you every night and every waking moment of my day, dearest Thomas, and I hope you do the same of me.  _
> 
> _ If you would indulge me - find yourself a private place as you read this next section. If I venture too far, alert me in your response.  _

Thomas flushes red as he glimpses the next section, before hurriedly closing the letter and standing to lock the door. 

> _ Do exactly as I tell you -  _
> 
> _ Shed your clothes slowly, imagine I am with you, running my hands and brushing my lips all over your exposed skin. Find oil (I know you brought some to France with you) and lay back on whatever is most comfortable (if you are in private I would assume a bed, though a chair works fine). Slick your dominant hand and imagine I am there, kissing you and fisting your member. Imagine I am between your legs, nudging at your entrance with my finger as in reality you use your own. Sink down onto this finger, clench around it and roll your hips, slowly move your finger in and out.  _

He holds the letter tightly in his left hand, doing as John had instructed with his right. He groans as the finger slips inside him, the first time he’d had anything inside him since the day John had left for Yorktown. 

> _ I picture you like this as I write, little gasps escaping you as you throw your head back in pleasure at the breach. Continue this way until you feel stretched enough to add a second, and a third. _

He knows not to rush, knows what pace is good for him. So he sets the letter aside and focuses on that, ignoring his straining cock pushing against his stomach, moving his fingers in and out and in and out.

> _ Imagine, now, that it is me who stretches you open, who licks and sucks and bites at your thighs. Imagine I pull my fingers out of you, suck them clean. Imagine my member nudging your entrance, imagine me pushing in - and  _ oh _ you would feel so good for me, so good around me, wouldn’t you?  _

Thomas moans loudly, imagining just that - John hovering over him, pushing inside him, fucking him. A cock inside him, thicker than fingers could ever be, making him fuller, making him feel complete and stuffed. 

> _ Touch yourself, now. But don’t come until I say. Pump your member through your fist and your fingers in your ass and think of me, think of me, Thomas. Imagine me fucking you, dragging my dick against your walls. Say my name when you come, imagine me spilling inside you just after. Imagine. _
> 
> _ Come for me, pretty boy. _

He comes with a quiet shout of “John”, breathing harsh and shallow. He slowly removes his fingers from within himself, and wipes the excess fluids from both hands on the sheets. 

> _ Thank you.  _
> 
> _ The Marquis - I mentioned him earlier - tells me there is a silversmith’s shop where one may purchase toys of the sort not appropriate for public use. The address is: _
> 
> _ 51 Rue de Montmorency, Paris, France. _
> 
> _ He recommends their number five, and says I must not put down a description for fear of interception of this letter. I will indulge him - though there are far worse things written here than the description of a plug.  _
> 
> _ I do dearly miss you, Thomas, and I wish neither of us needed to be away from home at this time, however what’s done is done.  _
> 
> _ Yrs. Forever _
> 
> _ J. Laurens _

The letters continue in such fashion, the first few stanzas updating each other in the events of their separate lives, the last few giving into desires and fantasies. 

Thomas ends up going to the shop John’s friend recommended, and buying one such “toy”. Not number five - much too daunting, to him. He sees why the Marquis warned John not to put too much detail on the product. Though that brings up the question - John wasn’t phased, so what kind of products has  _ he _ seen?

Thomas keeps thinking about the last day they saw each other, about the “I love you” he never managed to say. 

He looks in the mirror, tries to pretend it’s John, and tries to say the words - the mere three words. 

He always fails. 

Eventually, though, he manages to say it. 

Just not out loud.

He writes the letter, and mails it within the day.

* * *

Three weeks later, Thomas has still received no response.

He’s starting to worry, just as he receives news of the Marquis de Lafayette’s return to France - and with this announcement, he discovers that the war is over. 

The war is over. 

Perhaps this is why John has not replied? Because the letter was sent to his military address, but he has gone home?

Thomas does not want to think about either of the two alternatives - John saw the confession of love and felt disgust instead of returning the feeling, or John is… 

Lafayette arrives in Paris the next week, and Thomas immediately seeks him out. 

“Mon Seigneur Marquis de Lafayette,” he says, and bows slightly. Lafayette is confused, staring at him. Thomas can understand why - John was right in his observation that the two look very much alike. In fact, many government officials are staring between the two of them like a very interesting fight. “Je m’appelle Thomas Jefferson.”

A light of recognition appears in Lafayette’s eyes. “Oh,” he says in perfect, barely accented English. “John’s Thomas.”

Thomas blushes at being recognized like that. “Uh, yes. I sought you out to ask if John - did he -”

Lafayette immediately understands, and reaches forward to grip Thomas’ arm. “It would probably be best for us to take this to a more private venue,” he says. There’s an apology in his eyes. 

Thomas feels the Earth drop out from under his feet.  _ Oh God, _ he thinks. He needs to puke. He can’t - the grip on his arm is tight, grounding. But it’s not enough. Nothing is ever - nothing will ever be enough. “No,” he says, and his own voice sounds tinny, far away. 

He only vaguely remembers Lafayette leading him away, carefully. Whispering to him soothingly in French he can’t understand because he wouldn’t understand English right then if someone tried to talk to him. 

_ John can’t be gone. John can’t be gone. John can’t be gone. _ He repeats it like a mantra, like if he says it enough he’ll convince himself. But the look in Lafayette’s eyes. The sorrow. 

_ He can’t be dead. He can’t… he can’t be. _

“ _ Desole, _ ” Lafayette whispers. “ _ Desole, mon ami, desole.” _

“NO!” Thomas yells, screams, spits. He claws his way through the suffocating  _ emotion _ pushing down his throat and bursts into the open, sobbing and breathing shallow, not enough air. Tears dripping down his face, God, the hurt, the ache. It burns, it burns, he’s burning and no one is coming to help him. 

“Thomas,” Lafayette says, hands on his face, cold. Shocking. “Thomas.” 

_ It’s not the end of the world _ , Thomas thinks. But he stares into Lafayette’s eyes, sees the cracks in his soul and thinks,  _ or maybe.  _

_ Maybe it is. _

* * *

The funeral will be held while Thomas is still in France. He throws a chair out the window of the Marquis’ - “just call me Lafayette, really” - bedroom. He copes.  _ August 27th. August 27th.  _ John had died the day before he’d sent the letter that contained the phrase “I love you”. Thomas has never told John that he loves him.  _ Oh Christ above. _

Lafayette understands how his mind works, the need for work distraction. He hears Thomas rant about the boring routineness of the work he’s doing and finds something new. 

“You write, non?” Lafayette asks, sticking his head into Thomas’ makeshift office. “The American Declaration of Independance. The big fuck you to Britain.” 

“Yes,” Thomas says, looking up. Lafayette visibly winces at the sight of him - and honestly Thomas doesn’t blame him. He has circles under his eyes, he’s pale. Gaunt. A shadow of who he was when he first arrived, and an expression so blank that if he was lying flat, he could be mistaken for dead. 

And maybe he is dead, in a way. Dead inside, dead so everything he does it methodical. A light has been drained from his soul, until all that remains is a husk, a whisper. Everywhere he looks, he thinks he sees John in his periphery. Everywhere he goes, he thinks he hear his voice. John is haunting him, following him everywhere he goes. 

With the nature of mindless work, one’s thoughts will wander past the muscle-memory actions and into places you never really want to go. Sitting still for too long will dredge up bad memories. Regrets. 

“I have a project,” Lafayette says. He steps into the room, closes the door. “A declaration of rights.” 

“For France?”

“For France.”

Thomas hesitates. Considers it. “I’ll need -”

“The General has given me permission to pull you out of your current duties,” Lafayette interrupts. He winks. “George is a dear friend of mine,  _ mon ami. _ He was easily, ah, persuaded.”

Thomas snorts, amused, and tries to imagine Lafayette flirting with an increasingly reddening George Washington. “Okay. I’ll help.”

“ _ Merci _ ,” Lafayette says. “This will not be as easy as the American one was.”

“Did you just call the American Revolution ‘easy’?”

“It was,” Lafayette says. “Trust me.” The event called the storming of Bastille had recently occurred, Thomas remembers.  _ Messy. He’s right. _

“I do,” Thomas says. “So. Where do we start?”

* * *

Thomas spends the next few months assisting Lafayette’s drafts. 

“Natural rights to life, liberty, and property,” he says lowly as Lafayette scribbles away on one section. “The pursuit of happiness was a bluff. It’s not my writing, and it shouldn’t be anywhere near that document.” 

There was a brief argument between them - one of the only disagreements - where Lafayette wished to endow these rights upon both men and women, but Thomas did not disagree, but felt it would be presuming too much to put it in this document. “Pick your battles,” he says. 

“I am,” Lafayette counters. “This is the battle I pick.”

“Then abandon the natural rights portion, and focus on women,” Thomas says. “Pick one to pass first. You’ll be fighting enough people with only one, to argue for both is insanity, and will destine you to fail.” 

Lafayette eventually concedes. 

The drafts are sent in, and reviewed. Edits are requested, and they happily fulfil the suggestions. 

It’s too soon, that it’s August 27th. 

It’s been exactly five years since John’s death. 

“Go home, Thomas,” Lafayette says. He rests his hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “You need to face it some time.”

“I can’t leave you in the middle of all this work,” Thomas says. “I can’t leave you  _ now _ , your country has just started a revolution.”

“I’ll be fine,” Lafayette says. His eyes say differently, but he looks away. “Go home, Thomas. It’s been five years. Visit him. You cannot keep running from your past,  _ mon ami. _ ”

“I can,” Thomas insists. “Just watch me.”

“No.” Lafayette gathers the papers from the table and kicks in his chair. “I will not watch you. Because you will be in America.” He digs in his pockets, and drops a sheaf of papers into Thomas’ lap. “Your ticket for the voyage back to America. _Merci,_ for all the work you’ve done for me, _ami._ _Au revoir._ I hope to see you soon.”

“ _ Merci, _ ” Thomas says. He stares down at the ticket. “As I do you.”

_ I’m going home,  _ he thinks.  _ I’m going home. _

* * *

Thomas drops his bags in the foyer, not bothering to bring them to his room or call for a slave to do it for him. He snatches the small pile of mail from the table by the door - he’d told most people with his address he’d be in France, and as such doesn’t have many letters. 

_ Abigail Adams, Angelica Schuyler -  _ oh, he needs to reply to that -  _ John Adams, James Madison, George Washington -  _ interesting. He sets that aside - and  _ John Laurens. _

His breath catches. He remembers the first letter he received - John had said,  _ my last letter to Monticello, I fear, must have arrived after you departed for the ship. _

This arrived when John was still alive.

Inside - John had made it out to be some sort of secret he’d revealed. Thomas stares at it, imagines… what if John has been having an affair? What if he secretly hated Thomas, and sent this letter to confess it. What if, what if, what if?

Thomas places the letter in the bottom, back of a drawer. He’ll read it later, he promises himself. Instead, he opens the letter from Washington. 

Oh. 

Well then.

* * *

“He wants you to be Secretary of State?”

“Yup,” Thomas says. 

James sighs. “Fine, I’ll go up with you. I swear to Christ, Thomas.” 

“You’re a part of the Cabinet. If I’m a part of the Cabinet and have to attend meetings in person, you do too.”

“If only the capital was closer to here,” James grumbles. “It’d be much easier.” 

“Agreed,” Thomas says. 

They reach New York in two days, traveling as quick as they can. 

“You’re not ready to meet Hamilton,” James says. “The brat is annoying as hell, and I told you about his bank plan -” 

“Yeah,” Thomas says. “I have to admit, I’m looking forward to meeting him, from your description.”

“What?” James asks, alarmed.

“It’ll be quite a change to have an intellectual equal to debate with,” Thomas says, smirking.

“Oh, Lord,” James groans. “You’re both going to be absolutely  _ terrible _ together.”  

* * *

“Mr. Jefferson!” Washington calls, and makes his way over, trailed by what looks like a child. 

A child in a bright, bright green suit.

“Mr. Jefferson, welcome home -”

“Mr. Jefferson - Alexander Hamilton,” the boy cuts in, grabbing the hand Thomas had been offering to Washington. He looks enthused, and shakes Thomas’ hand a bit too hard. 

Normally Thomas would have just brushed off the encounter, but with recent emotions, he just blinks, rattled. “Uh.” So this is the Alexander Hamilton James complains so colorfully about. Something about him bothers Thomas, but he’s unsure what.

“It’s good to see you,” Washington says, embracing him. 

“And you,” Thomas agrees. “I heard a lot from James.”

“I’m sure,” Washington says, displeased. 

_ Washington’s favorite, _ James had grumbled. Thomas’ eyes flick over to the boy, but he’s just staring thoughtfully at someone far away from either Washington or him. 

He reminds him of John.

That’s why he feels so strikingly familiar, the way he moves, how confident. Even from what James had said, the way they advocate their ideals are similar. Thomas’ eyes flick down to the medal on Hamilton’s chest. He wonders if they’d known each other. He wonders if they were friends.

“Regardless, I’m afraid I have to go. Only came briefly just to make an appearance. I’m exhausted, honestly, but felt it would be good to show up at my own welcome back party.” 

“A shame,” Hamilton says. 

“Indeed,” Thomas agrees. “Thank you very much for hosting this party,  _ Monsieur  _ Hamilton _. _ I know you didn’t have to, and I’m thankful you did.”

“Of course,” Hamilton says, smiling. It’s not a mean smile, but it’s not a nice one either. All in all - a politician. Thomas doesn’t know why he expected anything different. “I’m happy to be of service.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry  
> (no i'm not)  
> the-girlnightwing.tumblr.com hmu w prompts n shit ;;;))) (new blog)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings(tm)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont own cabinet battle 1 or 3, or the letters from Hamman to Laurens (with the exception of two altercations) - if u recognize it its probably not mine
> 
> also the wikipedia article for the compromise of 1790 says hamman gave tjeffs and jmads a "lucrative debt adjustment for their state of Virginia" but I asked my parents, who work at a loan company, to clarify what that means and they were like what the fuck,,, so i tried my best

“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” Thomas says. The thing is, what he said to Lafayette about happiness versus property - he’s right. And he can’t forget it. “We fought for these ideals, we shouldn’t settle for less. These are wise words, enterprising men quote ‘em, don’t act surprised you guys, cos I wrote them!”  _ Remind them what you’ve done for them,  _ he thinks.  _ Don’t let them forget. _ “Ooh, if Hamilton forgets, these plans would have the government assume states’ debts. Now place your bets as to who that benefits: the very seat of government where Hamilton sits!” He doesn’t know why he’s so angry until he almost slips, almost calls Hamilton “John”.  _ Jesus _ .

“Not true!” Hamilton yells, standing abruptly. His chair falls over backwards, and he stumbles, nearly falling face-first into the table. 

There’s a silence in the room before Thomas snorts. “Are you alright, Secretary Hamilton? It seems it would be best for everyone if you simply calmed down for once.”

Hamilton flushes in anger. “Shut  _ up _ -”

“Hamilton!” Washington barks.

Hamilton rights his chair and sulkily sits down in it once more.

“If the shoe fits, bear it. If New York’s in debt, why should Virginia bear it? Uh, our debts are paid, I’m afraid, don’t tax the South cos we’ve got it made in the shade.” Hamilton is growing steadily redder, and he opens his mouth to speak before Washington glares at him again. “In Virginia we plant seeds in the ground - we create! - you just wanna move our money around. This financial plan is an outrageous demand, and it’s too many damn pages for any man to understand.” 

“Maybe for you,” Hamilton mumbles. Thomas ignores him.

“Stand with me in the land of the free, and pray to God we never see Hamilton’s candidacy. Look, when Britain taxed our tea, we got frisky. Imagine what’s gonna happen when you try to tax our whisky.”

Whispers fly around the Cabinet room. Thomas smiles, satisfied, and sits back down.

“Hamilton,” Washington says warily. 

Hamilton jumps up. “Thomas, that was a real nice declaration. Welcome to the present, we’re running a real nation. Would you like to join us, or stay mellow doing whatever the hell it is you do in Monticello?” 

Thomas glowers, thinking of John. He doesn’t know if he  _ can _ go back and stay there for extended periods of time, at this point. Everything reminds him of John. It hurts too much. 

“If we assume the debts, the union gets a new line of credit, a financial diuretic. How do you not get it? If we’re aggressive and competitive, the union gets a boost. You’d rather give it a sedative? A civics lesson from a slaver, hey neighbor - your debts are paid because you don’t pay for labor. ‘We plant seeds in the South. We create,’ yeah, keep ranting. We know who’s really doing the planting.” 

_ John _ , his brain screams at him.  _ John would agree. John would agree. Shut up, _ he tells it viciously.  _ Shut the fuck up. _

“And another thing, Mr. Age of Enlightenment. Don’t lecture me about the war, you didn’t fight in it. You think I’m frightened of you, man? We almost died in the trench, while you were off getting high with the French!” 

“Do you think I wanted to be there?” He demands through gritted teeth. Hamilton casts him a surprised glance, but continues. 

“Thomas Jefferson, always hesitant with the President. Reticent—there isn’t a plan he doesn’t jettison. Madison, you’re mad as a hatter, son, take your medicine - damn, you’re in worse shape than the national debt is in. Sitting there useless as two shits, hey, turn around, bend over, I’ll show you where my shoe fits!”

Thomas sits back further in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, expression darkening. 

James pats his shoulder hesitantly. “Uh,” He says. 

“Not a word,” Thomas growls. “Not a goddamn word, James.”

* * *

“You need to get this plan through,” Washington says from inside an office. Thomas stops, curious. “Whatever it takes.”

“Sir,” Hamilton says, and Thomas holds back a groan. Of course it’s him. “I’ve heard rumors - mere whispers, of course, nothing major, just a little bit - a few stories -”

“Just spit it out.”

“- that Jefferson has gotten colder after the war ended.” Thomas, who had started to leave, freezes. “People are saying he used to be much more kind and, I don’t know. Open. Less like how he was in that meeting.”

It’s Hamilton’s office. The placard on the door reads,  _ Alexander Hamilton, Sec. of Tres. _ Lafayette had talked about him too, Thomas remembers. He’d had nothing bad to say, contrary to James. 

“Son, please be careful,” Washington says after a pause. “Especially with what you said today about the war. You don’t know what happened, and you don’t know what grief he has gone through. He lost someone in the war. Someone important to him. And we had sent him to France, all the way across the ocean. He was helpless to stop it.” 

“Oh.”

“I’m not telling you to tiptoe around him, but please, Alexander, be a little more sensitive about what you say.” 

Washington leaves the room. Thomas schools his face into a blank expression.

Washington shuts the door, and gestures for Thomas to walk with him. They get out of hearing range before Washington asks, “How much did you hear?”

“Everything the two of you said about me,” Thomas answers honestly. 

Washington sighs. “I didn’t want to tell him,” he says. “Not without your permission.”

“Don’t tell him,” Thomas confirms. “Thank you for that. And for warning him to be a little more careful with his words.”

Washington nods. “What do you think of him? Your honest opinion.”

Thomas takes a moment to consider. “His words. They’re good. They’re dangerous. I read the work he, James, and Jay did on the Federalist Papers.”

“Oh?” Washington asks, amused. “How long did it take you?”

Thomas snorts. “The entire trip back from France.”

“Must’ve been a boring boat.”

“Very funny. He’s loud spoken, but I see why you picked him. Good brain, good education. Columbia, right?”

“You were harsh, today,” Washington says. “Was that just anger from -” He clears his throat. “Or was it something else?”

“He reminds me of him,” Thomas says. He stares down at his hands. “I see him - John - wherever I go. I can’t escape the - it’s -”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Washington says. Thomas nods gratefully. Washington reaches into his jacket, then, and takes out two letters. Thomas recognizes his own writing instantly. “These arrived after… after,” he says, and hands them to him. Thomas takes them, gripping them tightly.  _ August 28th,  _ one says.  _ 1784\. Send to: John Laurens. _

“Thank you,” he says tightly. The 28th was the day he’d sent the letter where he’d said… he’d said  _ I love you. _ The day after John had -

“Of course,” Washington says gently. “If you need some time off - I’m sorry for calling you up here so soon after your return. I’m sure you need some time to… to properly mourn.”

“Where was he buried?” Thomas blurts. Lafayette hadn’t known. 

“Monticello,” Washington assures him. “Madison and I made sure of it. The funeral was open, but the burial was private. It was just the two of us, and a slave girl he knew.”

Thomas swallows. “Thank you,” he says. “I will return to Virginia, then. Expect me back here in no later than a week.”

“You can have more time, if you need -”

“No,” Thomas says. He steels himself. “Just a week.”

“Alright,” Washington says slowly. He claps Thomas on the shoulder. “Good luck, Thomas. And for what it’s worth… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Thomas says with a tight smile. “I wrote the freedom document. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

* * *

The week in Virginia, he spends moping in his bedroom. He can’t even look at the bed without memories of John barraging him. 

It doesn’t occur to him until the last day to look through John’s belongings. 

He looks through John’s desk first, and only sees trinkets and letters to his father in the beginning. But then he looks through a drawer, only to see that the bottom is slightly raised. A false bottom. He lifts it, and is surprised to discover a whole sheaf of letters addressed to “My Dearest Laurens”. It’s opened, and well read. 

Thomas unfolds the paper.

> _ Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that I love you. I shall only tell you that ’till you bade us Adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart to set upon you. Indeed, my friend, it was not well done. You know the opinion I entertain of mankind, and how much it is my desire to preserve myself free from particular attachments, and to keep my happiness independent on the caprice of others. You should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent. But as you have done it and as we are generally indulgent to those we love, I shall not scruple to pardon the fraud you have committed, on condition that for my sake, if not for your own, you will always continue to merit the partiality, which you have so artfully instilled into me. _

The letter continues, but Thomas sets it down, slightly sick to his stomach. The letter is dated a week before they had confessed their love, meaning John had a lover directly before falling into bed with him. He doesn’t know how to process this, so he extracts another, in the same handwriting, once again addressed to “My Dearest Laurens”. The possessive turns his stomach. This one is dated the day before they’d fallen to bed together, so whoever John’s lover is cannot have known. John could not have known.

He skims the beginning of this one, but gets caught on one section.

> _ To excite their emulation, it will be necessary for you to give an account of the lover—his size, make, quality of mind and body, achievements, expectations, fortune, &c. In drawing my picture, you will no doubt be civil to your friend; mind you do justice to the length of my nose and don’t forget, that I - _

He slams the letter down, breathing heavily. He doesn’t want to know what was said in the last line. From the context, it’s sexual. Extremely.

The next one is dated a little later - but enough time for any letter John might have sent on that fateful day to reach him. Thomas has little to no hope as he opens the letter, of there not being obscene content inside.

> _ I wish you were at liberty to transgress the bounds of your marriage. I would invite you after the fall to Albany to be witness to the final consummation. My Mistress is a good girl, and already loves you because I have told her you are a clever fellow and my friend; but mind, she loves you a l’americaine not a la françoise. _

“Transgress the bounds of your marriage.” So the lover knew of John’s wedded state - and the two of them still exchanged letters of this nature. Thomas tells himself he’s not hurt. He places this letter down carefully. John must’ve continued to send letters, but the lover never acknowledged a correction in etiquette, meaning either John never told him or neither of them cared. And the last one… 

> _ Peace made, My Dear friend, a new scene opens. The object then will be to make our independence a blessing. To do this we must secure our union on solid foundations; an herculean task and to effect which mountains of prejudice must be leveled! _
> 
> _ It requires all the virtue and all the abilities of the country. Quit your sword my friend, put on the toga, come to Congress. We know each others sentiments, our views are the same: we have fought side by side to make America free, let us hand in hand struggle to make her happy… _

Thomas skips to the end, as this letter was not so bad, to read the signature. 

> _ Yrs. Forever, _
> 
> _ Your Alexander _

Thomas’ breath is ripped from his throat at the name. Familiar. All too familiar. 

_ Hamilton is a dear friend of mine,  _ Lafayette had said.  _ He and John are two of my closest friends in America.  _

Hamilton and John had a mutual friend - there’s no way they hadn’t known each other. And the comment “Alexander” had made on beliefs would match up - Hamilton’s spiels and rants have sounded so much alike to John’s that Thomas has had to step back to compose himself multiple times. 

But it can’t be. Thomas refuses to believe it. John wouldn’t - he wouldn’t -

Hamilton is quickly making himself out to be Thomas’ archenemy. His complete opposite. 

Maybe this is why.

* * *

Hamilton approaches him, late at night, at his current New York residence. “I need your help,” he says. Thomas scoffs and tries to close the door, but Hamilton sticks his foot in the gap. “Please,” he says. 

“Why should I help you?” Thomas asks. He wants to scream,  _ did you have sex with my husband? Was it you? Did he love you more than he loved me? Was it YOU? _

“You have no reason to,” Hamilton admits. “But I am here, on your doorstep,  _ begging you _ , Jefferson. Please. I need to pass this bill.”

“What do I get in return?”

“I can negotiate  _ something _ ,” Hamilton says. He’s desperate. He looks like he might drop to his knees any second. 

“But would it be enough?”

“Nothing is ever enough,” Hamilton says, and there’s a glint in his eye. Thomas knows what it is. Hamilton will lose his job if he doesn’t get this bill passed - Congress will make him a disgrace. He has everything on the line, and he’s willing to sacrifice everything else to get this done. 

Thomas had written to Angelica Schuyler during that week in Monticello. He’d mentioned Hamilton, and had received a scathing response.  _ He’s married to my sister, _ she’d said.  _ But the man is relentless. He will never, ever be satisfied, and he damn well knows it. _

This is, evidently, what she’d meant. 

“Please,” Hamilton says. His voice cracks, and this time he  _ does _ drop to his knees. “Please.” 

Thomas is silent as he considers the man. Angelica had mentioned something else. Something about love. About how even if Hamilton would not rest, would not stop… he loves with all his heart. He has a wife. He has children. He needs to provide for them. And Thomas doesn’t want Angelica’s sister to starve. 

“Okay,” Thomas says. “I’ll arrange a meeting. You need to talk to Madison, yes?” 

“Yes,” Hamilton says. He’s still on the ground. “Thank you - thank you, Jefferson, I don’t know how to repay you -”

“Stay faithful to your wife,” He says. Hamilton looks surprised, but Thomas just shakes his head. “I know Angelica,” he says, and Hamilton stiffens. “If Eliza is anything like she’s told me… no one deserves to have their heart broken, Hamilton. But especially not her.”

“I will,” Hamilton promises, but something’s wrong. There’s something in his eyes - he’s already done it. He’s already fucked another person, without regard to how Eliza feels. “I will. I love her with all my heart, Jefferson, I won’t hurt her.”

“See that you don’t,” Thomas says.  _ I know how that feels.  _ Aching, hurting. Like he wants to scream but his lips are sewn shut, like he’s burning to ash. God, the  _ burning. _

_ I don’t want her to feel that pain. _

* * *

James isn’t entirely surprised when Thomas approaches him. “We’ll ask for the capital,” he says. “And he can have the banks.”

“He isn’t losing anything,” Thomas says. “Are you sure?”

“Debt adjustment for Virginia,” James says. “And I’m sure you’ll think of something personal to ask for. You tend to be good at that.”

“Of course,” Thomas says.  _ Sentiment, _ he thinks.  _ I wonder…  _

The meeting itself is in an upscale restaurant, something Hamilton would never be able to afford himself. Nothing on the menu costs below twenty dollars. 

“Food on me,” Thomas says with a shark’s grin when Hamilton visibly balks at the prices. He and James are lounging in the far back chairs of the round table, as far from the door to the private room as possible ( _ I arranged the menu, the venue, the seating).  _ It’s an intimidation tactic that Hamilton recognizes. Thomas sees him steel himself before opening the door - the glass is tinted so they can see out but no one can see in. Hamilton realizes this the moment he steps inside, but his expression is nothing but determined. 

The kid has guts. 

“Both sides are firm in our beliefs,” is the first thing he says. “The question is, are you willing to compromise?”

Thomas and James exchange a glance that says more than words could, and then they’re off, all three of them shooting ideas out, tossing them back and forth. The thing is, all three are good with their words. All three are tricky. 

But James and Thomas - there are two of them. They maneuver Hamilton and twist his own ideals back on him, together. Being so intimately familiar with each other, they work without needing to communicate - they don’t need talk, don’t need to make eye contact. 

And they make him believe what they want is what he wants.

“Give me the banks,” Hamilton says somewhere around dessert, “and I’ll give you the capital. I’ll even give Virginia a better debt adjustment.”

“One condition,” Thomas cuts in smoothly before James can utter an agreement. Hamilton turns, listening closely. “Off record, Hamilton. We all know that this isn’t an equal trade.” Hamilton shifts uncomfortably. “But we won’t ask you or Washington for anything further officially. What we will ask for, is a sacrifice.”

“Something personal,” James puts in, to make it look like they’d planned this.

“Something that you are hard pressed to leave at home when you leave the house,” Thomas says. “A trinket, perhaps. Not your wedding ring - but something of sentimental value.”

“I get it,” Hamilton says. “You can stop trying to think of ninety different ways to say it.” He hesitates, but takes off a chain hanging around his neck. It rests under his clothes, so it’s not visible to anyone looking at him. “Here.” He takes off the pendant, and places it in Thomas’ open palm. “A friend of mine gave that to me. As thanks for -” he clears his throat. 

“I didn’t take you for a whore, Hamilton,” James remarks, voice and expression emotionless. 

Hamilton reddens, and looks down at his hands. “I’m - I’m not -” 

“And the deal is complete,” Thomas interrupts. He shakes Hamilton’s hand, then stands and claps him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Hamilton, for your willingness to compromise.” His hand tightens. “I’ll be sure to keep your ring safe.” 

Hamilton doesn’t respond, instead electing to continue staring at his hands, curled uselessly in his lap. 

“Au revoir,” Thomas calls. He pushes open the door for James, then turns to look back at Hamilton, still slumped in the chair. “Oh, and I left you the bill.  _ Merci _ for the dinner,  _ Monsieur  _ Hamilton.”

The door slams shut on Hamilton’s outraged face. 

“Dick move,” James says as they walk away. 

Thomas shrugs. “Nah.” He waves the written confirmation of payment with a grin. 

“Dicker move,” James says. 

Thomas fingers the ring in his pocket. Two snakes, biting their tails. Ouroboros. Everything that goes around, comes around. You’ll always end up back at the start. Thomas can remember watching the silversmith create this ring. Initials carved into the inside - “JL”. 

John.

“He deserves it,” Thomas says. The two of them exit the building to the music of Hamilton’s outraged yelling, melding with their laughter to create the perfect symphony.

* * *

“Would it be appropriate to call this a reign of terror?” Aaron asks. 

James snorts, and leans his head on Aaron’s shoulder. “That. That is a good question.”

Thomas tugs at his own hair. “I want to - ugh. Have you found dirt on him yet?”

“I thought you had something?”

“I have something as a  _ back-up _ . I’m not releasing this information without good reason, and there’s something else, I  _ know it. _ ”

“Well,” James says, and yawns. “Let me know when you find this ‘something else’ of yours. I’m going to sleep.”

“You’re both useless,” Thomas grumbles. 

* * *

“Found your ‘something else’,” Aaron says. “Payments, regular. To one James Reynolds.”

“Embellishing funds?” Thomas asks. 

Aaron nods. “Looks like it.”

“Oh,” Thomas says, gleeful. “This will be  _ fun. _ ”

* * *

Hamilton publishes a pamphlet. 

“Can’t even keep decent blackmail on him,” Aaron mumbles. “The self-destructive brat.”

“Ninety-four pages,” Thomas says, incredulous. 

“Ninety-five,” James corrects gleefully. “ _ Ninety-five pages _ detailing the affair.”

“This is ridiculous,” Aaron groans. 

“His poor wife,” James adds. 

Thomas’ heart plummets. “Eliza,” he says. “Angelica’s going to  _ murder me _ .”

Eliza knows now how he feels. He wonders if he should talk to her, but dismisses the thought. She wouldn’t want to see him. 

“Angelica’s going to be too busy slowly torturing Hamilton to a cruel, painful death to even think about murdering you,” James says. 

“You have a point,” Thomas concedes. 

* * *

August 27th. It’s been years since John’s death, but the day still feels like a fresh wound. Thomas wonders if it’ll ever get better. 

He was called in today to discuss something privately with only a few people - otherwise, Washington is giving him the day off. 

“The issue on the table: a petition from a Quaker delegation in Philadelphia calling on Congress to end the African slave trade and abolish slavery, in all its forms. If this comes to a vote in Congress, what is the White House's position? Secretary Jefferson, you first. Tread lightly.” Washington gives him a grimace, knowing what - who - this topic reminds him of. Especially on this day. 

Years of arguing in Monticello, neither side giving way at all. With the four people in this room - him, Washington, Hamilton, and Madison - anything could happen. 

“The constitution clearly states that the states have to wait until eighteen-oh-eight to debate how whether to end the slave trade. Whether or not you want it guys, that is the final compromise we made.”

“Sir, wait -” Hamilton tries to cut in, but Thomas shuts him down.

“But for a second let us say that we can legislate unanimous emancipation, freedom reigns, and yes, it's great! We cannot cure prejudice or righteous, desperate hate. So back to Africa or do they get a separate state? In 1784, I tried to float banning slavery in the West -” Something he’d talked with John about. He’d tried, he’d tried his hardest but John thought he could try  _ harder _ . “- my notion didn't get a single vote. Slavery's a sin, it's growing like a cancer, but we can't address the question if we do not have an answer.”

“Is it my turn?” Hamilton says, jumping up angrily. “Good. Plantation states are packed with promise makers. Do you realize the precious time these legislators wasted? Institutionalizing slavery only multiplies our troubles. Wait till the 1800's, and their population doubles. You all know this is the stain on our soul and democracy. A land of the free?” A pointed glance towards Thomas here that goes ignored. He doesn’t need Hamilton using his own writing against him. “No, it's not, it's hypocrisy. To subjugate, dehumanize a race, call 'em property, and say that we are powerless to stop it, can you not foresee?” He whirls on Washington, something even Thomas didn’t see coming. “Sir, even you, you have hundreds of slaves whose descendants will curse our names when we're safe in our graves. How will the south find labor for its businesses? How will Thomas Jefferson find his next mistresses?” 

Thomas feels red hot anger flare through him.  _ Hamilton _ of all people is accusing  _ him _ of - “How  _ dare you!” _

“Yet still, people follow like lemmings. All your hemming and hawing, while you're hee-hawing with Sally Hemings!” 

_ Fuck.  _

Washington’s gaze sharpens on him. James looks surprised. The slave girl at John’s burial. They met her. He has no way out of this one. 

“That's enough,” Washington says instead. He’s talking to Hamilton, but his eyes are on Thomas. Disapproval. Thomas hunches down onto himself slightly, unnoticeably to most, but James sees. 

“Well you asked how I feel,” Hamilton says, bitter. “I don't pretend to know the answer, but the question is real.”

James stands, surprising everyone. “If I may, Mr. President?”

“Madison?”

“Let's take this moment to establish a precedent. First of all, sir, we won't involve you in this. Imagine this debate with all of congress, it's ruinous. I'll reassure the South, 1808 is still the year that was agreed upon, that buys us time and assuages fear. I'll tell the North that on January 1st of that year, we'll ban importation handling the worst. Once I get all this agreed upon, I'll pick up a pen, and introduce a motion never to discuss this again.”

Hamilton is outraged. “Mr President!

James rounds on him, tired of the argument. Hamilton is never willing to compromise, something James hates. “Hamilton, if we support emancipation, every single slave owner will demand compensation.” He tilts his head, leans closer. Smiles, nasty. “And as for slandering Jefferson with talk of mistresses - do you really wanna -”

“Do you really wanna have that conversation?” Thomas finishes. They’ve got him cornered. Washington is at his back, but Washington isn’t watching it. No, he’s watching all three of them instead, like a ball match. Watching it get tossed between the three, uncertain of who will fumble.

Washington sits back. He knows something is wrong, knows there’s something the three of them know that he doesn’t. But he doesn’t ask.

Hamilton gnashes his teeth, clenches his jaw, rubs his face. “No,” he finally says, quickly, like ripping off a bandage.

Washington sits back forward. “Madison, execute your plan to the letter. Let's hope the next generation thinks of something better.”

“Really?” Hamilton demands, rounding on both of them after they’ve left the office. “ _ Really? _ Neither of you believe in slavery, neither of you believe slavery is right, but you campaign to keep it? What the fuck are you playing at?”

“Hamilton,” James warns. “Not today.”

“Why the fuck not today? This debate was today, I will damn right talk about this today!”

Thomas closes his eyes, take a breath.  _ Don’t listen to him. Don’t listen. Breathe in. Out. In. _

“Jefferson,  _ look at me! _ ”

“Hamilton!” James snaps. “Leave him be!”

“No, I won’t! Why can’t the two of you see reason?”

“Why can’t you?” Thomas asks, heart racing. He doesn’t want to argue more about this than he needs to. He just wants to get home, just wants to go back to Monticello, to see John’s - John’s grave. His grave. 

“Because my  _ best friend  _ who I  _ loved _ and who loved me back  _ died _ years ago, today!”

“Hamilton, please stop there -” James tries. 

“Because he was fighting for black freedom until the day Loyalist soldiers put ten bullets in his torso!”

Thomas looks horrified. They’d never given him details on John’s death. For good reason. 

James groans. “Goddammit, Hamilton.” 

“Because I don’t want his sacrifice to fucking be in vain!”

“Oh dear,” James mutters, and plugs his ears in time to block out Thomas’ outraged roar.

“AND YOU THINK I WANT IT TO BE?” He’s breathing harsh, trying to get it back under control. “GOOD FOR YOU HAMILTON, YOU LOVED AND FUCKED ANOTHER MAN’S HUSBAND WHILE YOUR WIFE WAITED FOR YOU TO RETURN FROM WAR, OH  _ BOO FUCKING HOO, _ YOU GREAT PISSBABY! I’m glad he loved you because he  _ clearly didn’t fucking love me!”  _ He extracts the ring from his pocket, the one Hamilton had given him that day of the compromise, the one he’d given John so many years ago. He throws it to the ground at Hamilton’s feet. Hamilton doesn’t pick it up. “This ring? That you hold sentiment to because he  _ gave it to you _ in return for  _ sex _ ?  _ I gave it to him.  _ Shows exactly how much of my love he returned, doesn’t it!”

Hamilton has paled, terrified. “I didn’t - I didn’t know -”

“I mourned him,” Thomas hisses. “I still mourn him. Every goddamn day of my life he haunts me. Every goddamn day, everywhere I turn, everything I do, he haunts me. I came back from France expecting an allowance of grief, the ability to mourn him as I knew him, but I looked in his desk to find anything he’d want me to keep and I find  _ letters, Hamilton. Letters from you. _ ” 

“Those weren’t - Jefferson, I swear, I didn’t -”

“SHUT UP!” The sound resonates through the hall. Every sane soul has left the vicinity. Only Thomas, James, and Hamilton remain. “Shut up. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to see you for a fucking week. I’ll be in Monticello, tell Washington I’ll be back on Monday. Don’t. Fucking. Bother. Me.”

He turns. He leaves. 

James exhales quietly, and picks up the ring. “Take it,” he tells Hamilton. “He won’t want it anymore.” One of the heads has been broken off the tail. An infinity circle, broken. The imperfection would bother Thomas until he took it to a smith to get it fixed. 

“Madison,” Hamilton calls after him when he leaves, regretful. “I didn’t mean to -”

“I know,” James says over his shoulder. His hand rests on the doorknob, and he stares at it considering. “He does too. Or he will, once he’s cooled down.” He turns, rests his back against the door. “You have a good wife, Hamilton,” James says. His eyes are trained on Hamilton’s wedding ring. “She’s still alive, too. You’ve put her through hell. Don’t make your fling with Laurens public knowledge. And don’t hurt her anymore.” He clears his throat. “Your son has arranged a duel.”

“I know.”

“Stop him.”

Hamilton swallows. “I - I’ll try.”

“Do better than try,” James says. “That’s what you promised Angelica. Look where that got you.” He pushes open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and gives a lazy salute. “Au revoir.”

“Au revoir,” Hamilton echoes, a moment too late, to an empty hallway. He looks down at the ring.  _ Ouroboros. _ Infinity circle. A new chance. A clean slate. Forgiveness. 

He swallows.  _ Okay. _

He can do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> id say im sorry but im rly not ;;; )))


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> letters of interest

Herein lies records of letters. In the top right is the date. If unopened, the second right aligned line will be that word. If sent to or from a place of interest, the next two right aligned lines are to and from, respectively. Please be delicate when handling the archives.

Thank you.

* * *

 

> _August 27th, 1796_
> 
> _Dearest Laurens,_
> 
> _This letter will be short, as I only have a little time. Every letter I write from now on is being placed in my bottom desk drawer. I have no fear of Betsy finding them, for even if she did, there is nothing here to hide._
> 
> _I found out who your mysterious loverboy is today, and I have to say - Jefferson? Really?_
> 
> _As you might’ve guessed, I did not come to this revelation in a, ehem, peaceful manner. He screamed at me, all justified things. I do believe your letter of explanations never reached him, or if it did he did not manage to read it, for some of the things he accused me of were mentioned in that letter, and clarified throughout. Regardless, I do suppose you have a rather fine taste in men. He_ is _handsome, when he isn’t ripping my arguments to shreds._
> 
> _I hope you don’t mind my altering of sign-offs. I felt it would be appropriate, given your true husband and lover’s anger at me in the current moment._
> 
> _Fare thee well, Laurens, in the afterlife._
> 
> _Your Obdt. S_ _t_
> 
> _A. Hamilton_

* * *

 

> _April 20th, 1804_
> 
> _Dearest Laurens,_
> 
> _I fear I have made a grievous mistake._
> 
> _Before I go into detail, however, I must update you on the past eight years._
> 
> _Your husband is well - he became Vice President just the year after the last letter I_ ~~_sent_~~ _wrote. He and I still have our differences and disagreements, but we’ve been trying to work past them. He accomplished much, together with Madison working to repeal acts one John Adams created entitled, “Alien and Sedition Acts”, which would be discriminatory and hurtful towards immigrants and others - including me. The man has never liked me._
> 
> _Unfortunately, Philip has passed - you will remember him only as a small babe, likely. However I take you know this, as he will likely have joined you in the afterlife. I pray for both he and you every day, and I wish you well. He had challenged a young man to a duel in my honor - Madison told me to stop him, and I tried, I tried my damnedest, but he would not listen._
> 
> _Betsy was devastated, and would hardly leave our bedroom for weeks._
> 
> _Then, an election. Of 1800, of the turning of the century. A glorious moment, no? But alas, it was not so. See, your husband and our friend Aaron Burr were the two running-up candidates, and it was up to the delegates to decide who would become President of the United States. The choice was obvious to me then, but now, looking back, I wonder…_
> 
> _My vote swayed the committee. I was asked, who will I vote for? And I answered truthfully: Thomas Jefferson._
> 
> _This will shock you, I know. But I know him, both through you and through opposing him. He is strong in his beliefs, steadfast in his actions. He will make a good president, even if I oppose every notion he stands for. He will begin the expansion of our great country, and he will be key in that._
> 
> _And that brings us to now._
> 
> _Burr, as custom, was made Vice President. However he heard of the vote I cast. And as I’m sure you know - for you ran in Jefferson’s social circles, I’m sure - Jefferson and Burr are friends. But that did not dampen Burr’s anger towards me. I had voted for someone I despised over someone I sometimes consider a friend._
> 
> _But Burr does not have opinions, Burr changes his thoughts with the wind, Burr would not be the leader we need. Do you not agree? It pains me to admit this, as Burr’s current ideals are better than we had even dreamed… but he will not keep them. Especially with a rich southern plantation owner husband. I’d ask if you knew Burr and Madison were wed, but I’m sure the answer is yes._
> 
> _He has challenged me to a duel. Madison came to me, to try and talk me out of it, but I will not back down before Burr does. I know now my stubbornness and pride. I see it._
> 
> _Yet I bow to it._
> 
> _The duel will take place within the year. I will not tell Betsy. But I wish you to know - I will aim my pistol to the sky. I don’t believe he will kill me. He’s too indecisive. In that moment, and even before, he will worry and second-guess his choice. We will both aim to the sky, we will both shoot upwards to the heavens instead of into flesh._
> 
> _And that way, neither of us win, but neither of us lose._
> 
> _I am confident in my choice. Madison is not. But what do I care of what Madison thinks?_
> 
> _I will write after the duel._
> 
> _Until then,_
> 
> _Your Obdt. S_ _t_
> 
> _A. Hamilton_

* * *

 

> _July 12, 1804_
> 
> _Never sent_
> 
> _Hamilton is dead._
> 
> _\- T. Jefferson_

* * *

 

> _June 9th, 1784_
> 
> _Unopened_
> 
> _To Monticello, Virginia_
> 
> _From the Revolutionary Battlefield_
> 
> _Dearest Thomas,_
> 
> _I write to you to disclose some information I should have told you in person, but was too cowardly to do._
> 
> _I have slept with my friend, Hamilton. Before you become upset, let me clarify - I have slept with my friend, Hamilton, before I discovered my feelings for you are returned. I was desolate once I realized how I felt, assuming you would never feel the same. I tried to banish away the feelings by coupling with a friend who would be willing to do this act with me - and just this act, no ulterior feelings. Hamilton was the perfect choice. He could teach me (and was patient while doing so) and he did not want more than the carnal pleasure we both derived from bodily contact._
> 
> _The moment I untangled myself from your limbs that first night, I rushed to write a letter - encoded - of what had occurred, and wrote, too, that he should respond in kind with the discrete language, or not acknowledge my message at all. His reply held the message that he would no longer send messages implying things two unmarried men might do to each other._
> 
> _My letter to him had arrived late, and he had already sent an explicit letter before he read what I wrote. This letter contains his suggestion that I “witness the final consummation” of his marriage, which I am glad I did not, as women are not exactly my cup of tea. And aside from that, I have you. What else could I want?_
> 
> _One last serious topic, and it is_ serious _. Sally Hemings. I found her, one day, crying on the floor of the hallway where she and I have the tradition of meeting on Wednesdays. She tells me you did terrible things to her. She tells me of horrors I could not imagine you inflicting upon anyone, much less a girl of her age. Just because her skin is a darker shade than yours, just because society today allows you to call her “property”, does not mean you can do to anyone what you did to her. I expect you to apologize verbally, and to not just make it up to her in gift and money, but also free her. She did not deserve the hell you put her through._
> 
> _I met her when she was ten. She was a sweet girl - too innocent for Monticello. Her mother tried to protect her, but maternal protection from a slave only goes so far. She and I have talked extensively on many topics, but the one topic we avoided was you. Our opinions of you differ too much._
> 
> _Differed. Past tense. You’ve proved me wrong, Thomas. You’re exactly what she thought you were. Congratulations._
> 
> _But I cannot help but continue to love you. Goddamn, I wish I hated you for what you did, but I can’t. It makes me a terrible person, I acknowledge that. I was a terrible person for not confronting you earlier._
> 
> _The lookout has seen a soldier headed towards us. I must go. But we will talk extensively on both these topics when we convene in Monticello once more._
> 
> _I look forward to going home._
> 
> _Yrs. Forever_
> 
> _J. Laurens_

* * *

 

> _August 28th, 1784_
> 
> _Unopened_
> 
> _To the Revolutionary Battlefield_
> 
> _From Paris, France_
> 
> _Dearest John,_
> 
> _France remains the same. I wish I could be with you, at home, but there is still much to do and the war is yet to be over. You have not responded to my last letter as of now, but I have no patience to wait. I have waited too long, anyway._
> 
> _I have wanted to say these few words for so long, but never have words been so hard for me to utilize as these are in front of you. I fear it will take me a while to be able to say them to you in person, but I have managed to write them while thinking of you, which is a step forward._
> 
> _John Laurens, I do believe I love you._
> 
> _As this is a second letter, I will wait for your reply to this one before I reply to any letter you send to me._
> 
> _As this is a second letter, I fear I do not have the inspiration to write anymore. You know to what I refer to._
> 
> _Yrs. Forever_
> 
> _T. Jefferson_
> 
> _P.S. - I look forward to seeing you when I arrive home. The years couldn’t fly by fast enough. I love you, my darling. Adieu._

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comment to tell me what you think  
> have i made you cry yet? ;;; )))  
> the-girlnightwing.tumblr.com hmu w prompts n shit ;;;))) (new blog)


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